


Level Two: Series One

by Ashii Black (ashiiblack), blamebrampton, Catsintheattic, dustmouth, epithalamium, incandescent (lmeden), JosephineStone, leveltwo, nerakrose, raitala, Romaine, Vaysh, Writcraft



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry, Crime Fighting, Drama, HP: EWE, M/M, Murder Mystery, Side relationship: Draco Malfoy/Benjy Williams, Unspeakable Draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 13:45:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 113,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashiiblack/pseuds/Ashii%20Black, https://archiveofourown.org/users/blamebrampton/pseuds/blamebrampton, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catsintheattic/pseuds/Catsintheattic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustmouth/pseuds/dustmouth, https://archiveofourown.org/users/epithalamium/pseuds/epithalamium, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/incandescent, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JosephineStone/pseuds/JosephineStone, https://archiveofourown.org/users/leveltwo/pseuds/leveltwo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerakrose/pseuds/nerakrose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/raitala/pseuds/raitala, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romaine/pseuds/Romaine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Witches and wizards are disappearing in a seemingly random fashion. Coincidence? Abductions? But no one is claiming ransom. The Aurors are not even sure the disappearances are connected, then one of the missing turns up dead. Meanwhile, Auror Harry Potter is thrown into the infamous Sirius Black Muggle murder case from 25 years ago. Given a chance to clear his godfather's name for good, Harry is not above accepting even the help of magical specialist Draco Malfoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue + Episode #1: Particles in Solution

**Author's Note:**

> For the COMPLETE, **_ILLUSTRATED_** experience of Level Two [click here](http://hd-level-two.livejournal.com/43091.html) and download either the .pdf or .epub. You can also read the entire thing as it's posted in its original form [right here!](http://hd-level-two.livejournal.com/32012.html)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter might murder his boss. Draco Malfoy would kill for some meaning in his life. Kingsley Shacklebolt has a whole filing cabinet full of victims looking for two slightly testy champions.

PROLOGUE

Harry squinted into the setting sun, relying on reflections from the glass-fronted buildings on both sides to show the patch of distorted space that was the Disillusioned Æthelbert Farrell. Under his breath he muttered his own stream of spells to keep himself from the eyes of Muggles below – and Muggles around and above, he supposed, given all the windows.

Farrell had been on the lookout for them in Diagon Alley. Someone had alerted him, whether it was one of their own people or one of the insiders from Farrell and Co. – who Ron thought they had turned, but there might have been regrets – he would find out later. Harry had no doubt Farrell knew he was being pursued, but whether or not he could see through Harry's defences was another question.

He had _told_ Dawlish that it was a stupid plan to outsource the Ministry's spell research, but the Head Auror had coldly informed him that he didn't require administrative advice from his Deputy and … Harry left off his familiar 'Why My Boss is Crap' rant to haul his broomstick upwards and follow Farrell into a sudden, steep climb.

High above Canary Wharf they soared, up past the architectural flourishes and bristles of concealed aerials that crowned the skyscrapers. For a moment he could make out the shape of a wizard crouched on his broom in the shimmering air against the bright gold clouds – it broadened, turning, and Harry wheeled to one side to avoid the smoothly thrown hex.

So he was visible to Farrell. Fine. Harry didn't wait to spin upright before aiming his wand. Farrell was growing more solid by the second, all disguise sacrificed in favour of what Harry assumed would be a complex web of shields. He didn't try to get past them, but put his faith in brute force. ' _Deprimo!_ ' he shouted, and a blast of wind exploded from his wand.

He could see the moment at which Farrell lost his grip on his own wand – all disguises disappeared in an instant and Farrell came sharply into view, arms wheeling frantically as he grabbed after his wand, too late realising that he was also separating from his broom.

Harry leaned into his Firebolt, urging it forward to cover the distance the spell had blown Farrell. A whispered _Accio wand_ brought the twig of ash close enough for Harry to snatch it from its fall, he tucked it inside his robes. Gravity asserted itself on Farrell before his broom, one meaty foot caught in the Cleansweep's ornate brasswork footrest and dragged a startled Farrell upwards. The man had the good sense to stop kicking at that point, and looked almost smug for a brief moment, until he realised that the spells levitating and propelling the broom now required wandless magic on his part. From the look on his face, wandless magic was not one of Farrell's strengths.

Harry timed it carefully. Just as the Cleansweep gave out, he drew level and muttered _Incarcerous_. Ropes twined out from the end of his wand, wrapping snugly around Farrell and his broom. A medium-strength hover charm followed, and saw the corrupt entrepreneur rendered both harmless and balloonlike.

Give him his due, he wasn't going quietly. 'This is Auror harassment!' Farrell shouted. 'My lawyers will sue the Ministry down to its last knut! After all my company has done for you people, this is outrageous behaviour!'

Harry tugged on his end of the rope until Farrell was only a few feet away. The shouting decreased in direct proportion to the proximity.

'There are no actual defensive spells on the vests you sold to my department,' Harry said, as quietly as he could three-hundred metres above the busy city. 'I have two team members in St Mungo's. You have a secret account in the Goblin Bank of Willendorf into which all of your research budget for the next three years has been ferreted. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the Wizengamot, because, sunshine, you are well and truly nicked. Are we clear?'

Farrell, exhibiting the first piece of good sense Harry had seen out of him since he snake-oiled his way into the Minstry nine months previous, shut up.

They had drifted downwards as they spoke, and the top floors of Canada Square were nearing again. Harry briefly tossed up the logistics of Disillusioning the two of them, and decided that he would rather do a spot of mental physics. He Apparated them straight into the Ministry's Atrium, appearing over in the quiet bit behind the memorial fountain where there was almost always more than enough space to kill all your speed and land safely if you came in flying.

There was this time, too. It would all have been perfectly fine, had they not appeared in direct line of sight behind a row of photographers just as Head Auror Dawlish was announcing that the rumours of problems with the Ministry's private research contracts were nothing more than the sort of gutter journalism one expected from Muggles.

Harry could hear him reach the crescendo of his speech: 'Over the course of this year, Æthelbert Farrell has shown himself to be an inspiring inventor and just the sort of entrepreneurial Wizard to lead this Ministry forward into a new age of public/private partnerships …' Only the tide of photographers tracking the floating Farrell away from him stemmed the flow of Dawlish's oratory. Harry watched as, inevitably, his boss turned around to focus on the source of the disturbance.

A lesser wizard would have stuffed his landing under that sort of scrutiny. Harry swung one leg across his broom and dropped lightly to one foot, jogging a few steps until he killed his forward momentum. Casually swinging his Firebolt over one shoulder, he towed a compliant Farrell over to the nearest lift, which arrived as if on cue. In the distance, he could see Dawlish looking for words, ones Harry was sure would be shouted at him later. But later would come soon enough.

He reached forward and pressed the button: Level Two.

********************************

Level Two: Episode One  
Particles in Solution

None of Kingsley's personal assistants were littering the Minister's outer office at 7.45 the following morning. In fact, as Harry stomped grimly in from the corridor, there was only one other person in sight: Draco Malfoy, sitting quietly on the waiting bench, reading the latest edition of _Granger's Notes on Wizarding Jurisprudence_. They exchanged nods, which they had been doing for years now, and Harry continued, stomping less obviously, into Kingsley's office.

'Did you know about this?' he asked, closing the door behind him with one hand and holding up a sheet of parchment with the other.

'Do sit down, Harry. Cup of tea? Biscuit?' Kingsley had been ignoring interrogations, rants and tirades from all comers since 1998, which was one of the cornerstones of his success as Minister.

'Kingsley, Dawlish is shafting me. Doesn't that bother you?'

'Try one of the jammy dodgers. Mabel Erpthwaite from the Wizengamot made a batch on the weekend. They're delicious.'

Harry wondered if there were a school of leadership that predicated itself on defusing moments of tension with sweets. And why his life was full of its devotees. He took a biscuit anyway and sat down in the chair opposite Kinsgley, tossing the parchment onto the desk between them.

'Cold Case Department, my arse. He's sidelining me so that he can get on with running the Aurors as his own personal fiefdom, regardless of how many idiotic mistakes he makes. Do you have any idea how much the fandango with Farrell has cost us?'

'Two hundred and forty-seven thousand Galleons,' Kingsley said calmly, chewing on a biscuit. 'Most of which we are in the process of recovering.'

'He hasn't even had the balls to tell me about it himself. Just a memo and a short announcement in the _Prophet_ ,' Harry fumed.

'I think you're missing the opportunity here,' Kingsley said.

'Opportunity?' Harry picked up the memo and read: '"John Dawlish is pleased to announce the promotion of Harry Potter from Deputy Head Auror to Head Auror, Cold Case Division. This new initiative is designed to investigate cases which have remained unsolved for five years or more. It is expected that Auror Potter will have great success in this new role, applying the rigour and insight that have seen him achieve one of the highest clear-up rates in Auror history in only seven years with the department. The Cold Case Division will be located outside the main department, but will be able to draw on our resources as necessary."

'Translated: I'm going to stick Potter in a closet again, because that will be hilarious, and I'm also going to stick him with cases he can't possibly solve, because I'd like to distract attention from the fact I'm a jumped-up twatface who wants to go back to running the Auror department however I feel best on the day without any critical oversight, save what small amount Shacklebolt can manage from a distance. And because he _is_ my most successful Auror, I'm going to pretend it's a promotion rather than the dead-end sidelining that anyone can see it really is, so if he complains in public, he'll look like a banana. And he can have a stapler that works if he is a good boy and keeps quiet about it.'

Kingsley smiled and inclined his head. 'I thank you for the acknowledgement that I at least attempt some oversight within the Ministry.'

'You know what I mean.' Harry sank back in his chair.

'And I say again, you are missing the opportunity.' Kingsley opened a large drawer and pulled out a stack of black files, with a smattering of blue amongst them. 'Look here. Rebecca Winterbottom, found dead in a field at Trent Bridge, March 1995. No leads. Marlene, Harry, Lizzie, Pete and Emma McKinnon, all killed in their family home, 1981, we know it was Death Eaters, but no-one has ever paid for the crime. Edward Flyte, disappeared November 2001, no sign of him since. All these people deserve justice, Harry.'

Kingsley pushed the stack of files across the table towards him, and Harry unwillingly began to leaf through the top sheets.

'And then,' Kingsley continued, 'there's this one.'

This file was slimmer than most. 'Sirius Black' was printed neatly across the top of it. A photo was held beneath the label with a Sticking Charm. A young man in casual clothes, looking for all the world as though he was about to speak blinked up at him.

_Younger than me,_ Harry thought, concentrating on breathing. He stared at the cardboard folder.

'Accused of killing twelve Muggles,' Kingsley reminded him.

'You know he didn't do it,' Harry managed.

'I do. As do you. It's a terrible shame Peter Pettigrew died before he could make a statement in front of the Wizengamot.'

'But everyone knows,' Harry protested weakly.

'Many people do,' Kingsley allowed. 'But don't you think it would be a marvellous thing if it could become an official position?'

Harry looked at him through narrow eyes.

'I've even managed a small staff for you,' Kingsley added.

Harry brightened. 'Ron?'

Even before Kingsley shook his head, Harry knew what was coming.

'One of our finest young Unspeakables.'

Harry didn't even sigh.

'He's been sorely under-utilised with the Auror Department's outsourcing policy. I think it will be a nice surprise for him.'

Harry looked up. 'You haven't told him?'

'I did think that I should check with you first,' Kingsley said.

Harry's eyebrows lifted. 'Can I tell him?'

'Can you do it nicely?'

Harry gave up and laughed. 'You'd better tell him.'

'So you're in?' Kingsley smiled at him.

'You knew I would be the moment you showed me that file.'

'I'll ask Mr Malfoy to join us, shall I?'

Harry watched as Kingsley moved outside to talk quietly with Malfoy. He didn't mind it being Malfoy. Not really. Ron was going to do his nut, but Malfoy had been down in Mysteries for the last five years and as far as Harry knew, no-one had a bad word to say about him. They crossed paths now and then, most often in the Golden Hind, the gay bar Harry had taken to hiding out in after a month in which no fewer than three middle-aged witches had physically flung their daughters at him in the Leaky. It was as much for the poor girls' sake as his own.

The lads in the Hind had cheerfully checked him out – every time he walked in if truth be told – but were not only more circumspect (and blessedly parent-free), they were more supportive, too. When the _Prophet_ had splashed a headline wondering if Ginny Weasley had ruined him for women forever, no fewer than twelve of the boys had contacted the paper to point out that it was exceptionally unlikely he'd changed teams, since none of them knew anyone who had slept with him. That sort of loyalty couldn't be bought.

Harry was fairly sure that Malfoy had spent that whole day laughing quietly, but knew for a fact that Benjy Williams, the Puddlemere United Seeker who was regularly seen heading off with Malfoy at the end of a night, had been one of the twelve.

Ironically, he had just that week decided that he wasn't averse to a spot of experimentation, but he could hardly sully such a beautiful gesture, and he'd spent all his drinking time since being impeccably well behaved. If wearing tighter trousers than had previously been his wont.

Kingsley returned, Malfoy a few steps behind. Harry had quite a good joke halfway to his lips, but the grim look on Malfoy's face killed it. Instead, he nodded again.

Malfoy returned it. 'Potter. Shacklebolt tells me he wants us to work together.' He took the seat opposite Harry's moving it slightly away.

'The new Cold Case Division,' Harry said. 'Dawlish has set it up. Kingsley wants us to tackle unsolved crimes and see if we can't bring a few people who've been getting away with it for years to justice.'

'I am hoping that you can help Harry with the technical aspects of the project,' Kingsley said. 'I know you've been doing remarkable work down in Mysteries and thought you'd like a chance to put some of your theories into practise in the field.'

'You're talking as though it's a real department,' Malfoy observed.

Harry paused.

'It is a real department, Mr Malfoy,' Kingsley said. 'I've found you offices and am having a sign made even as we speak.'

Malfoy raised an eyebrow in a manner that bespoke hours of practise in front of a mirror. 'So it's not just a punishment for Potter?'

'It's that, too,' Harry said before Kingsley could perjure himself.

'And you want to haul me out of Mysteries to add credence to a scheme that will only last until the _Prophet_ can prepare its "Our Harry is Being Hard Done By" special and run an interactive poll that asks the readers who they prefer as Head Auror: the Saviour of the Wizarding World or a grumpy old haggis of a man with the smooth political touch of a sturgeon?'

Harry found it hard not to laugh.

'You are missing an opportunity here,' Kingsley began. 

‘An opportunity for a two-hundred per cent increase in quarterly budget?’

‘Fifty,’ Shacklebolt replied.

‘But with access to additional staff.’

‘With access to the Minister’s private archives.’

‘And with authority to use experimental spells and technology as I see fit?’

‘Authority to use them as they are appropriate to the cases and with a full guarantee on your part of safety to all those affected by them.’

Malfoy paused for a moment, then nodded. ‘And working _with_ Potter, not _for_ him.’

Harry nodded even before Kingsley did. 

‘And approval for calling him whatever name seems appropriate at the time?’

‘Could I stop you?’ Kingsley asked. 

‘No.’

Harry rolled his eyes and tossed Sirius's folder back onto Kingsley’s table. Malfoy glanced down at it. 'All right,' he said. 'I'm in.'

********************************

Their office was on the MLE level, but away from the main Auror offices. Kingsley had not been joking about the sign, an overalled wizard was screwing it to the door as he led them down the corridor. He opened the door, revealing two medium-sized rooms and a kitchenette.

'You can expand the rooms as you need them, I thought Mr Malfoy could use one as a laboratory,' Kingsley said.

Malfoy was already investigating the space. 'The back room, I can install a fumigation system for my cauldrons and we should be able to contain any blasts more thoroughly there. I'll need half the front room for my reference library, but we can make space for a desk and some files for Potter.'

'Possibly a coat rack?' Harry suggested sarcastically.

'For robes. Good idea. I'm assuming we can use the main Auror holding cells when we start bringing in miscreants?'

'Certainly,' Kingsley said.

'Marvellous. Can I bring in my lab fittings from Mysteries?'

'Of course.'

'And are you going to get a desk for Potter?'

'Naturally.'

'And a chair?'

Harry stopped his drifting around the room and looked back at Malfoy, strongly suspecting a joke.

Kingsley replied, perfectly straight: 'Two chairs, possibly three.'

'Thank you, Minister. If you can see to that, I imagine we can get down to work.'

Harry had to work to keep the smile from his face. 'Have you had breakfast, Malfoy?'

'Only tea and toast.'

'You're two ahead of me. Cafeteria?'

'Bring the files?'

'Yes, do. Kingsley, do you need us?'

Kingsley smiled at them. 'I do, actually. But we can set up the office without you. Go and eat.'

The cafeteria had been the most popular part of the Ministry rebuild after the war. It combined the best traditions of dubious British cuisine with comfortably stuffed armchairs and architecture that went heavily in for panelling and alcoves. As a result, it was popular as an ad hoc meeting space for those who wanted quietness, in addition to being a reliable venue for a quick egg and chips before work.

Malfoy secured them one of the prime corner tables while Harry availed himself of plates of toast, scrambled eggs and mushrooms, and as many beverages as he could fit onto the tray.

'I didn't know if you wanted tea, coffee, juice or hot chocolate …' he explained himself as he tried to fit things in around the papers Malfoy had spread out.

'I'll take the tea and the juice,' Malfoy replied, reaching for the same, and taking one of the plates, too.

Harry arranged the remainder and leaned the tray against the wall behind them. 'So,' he said. 'What do you think?'

'I think you'll put up with me until you can come up with a suitably subtle plan for getting rid of Dawlish and taking control of the Auror Department. After that I will be sent back to Mysteries with a slightly but permanently increased budget – always assuming the two of us haven't killed each other before then.'

Harry could feel his eyes widening.

Malfoy stopped. 'Oh, you meant about the case. I think it's exceptionally frustrating. Obviously Black was framed by Pettigrew, but most of the witnesses are dead, those who aren't were tramped all over by the Committee for Muggle-Worthy excuses. And there's no point hunting down any of them: the whole team died during the war. As did most of the Aurors who attended.'

Malfoy turned the file around so Harry could see it, and sure enough there were fine green lines drawn through many of the names, with dates of death beside them.

'What about the Muggles? Surely they took names?'

'Yes, but not addresses. And the crime scene photographs are frankly rubbish.'

'Bugger.'

'Exactly.'

'There's one piece of good news.' Harry said, scanning down the paper. 'The Muggle Liaison, William Bustamant. Still alive, and there's an address for him.'

'So we start there?'

'I would think so.'

Malfoy chewed his toast thoughtfully. 'Or is “we” just you? Are you planning to have me sitting in the office doing all the work that requires brains while you go gallivanting about? Or were you thinking I should gallivant with you and then do the thinking in the afternoons while you do … whatever it is you do?'

Harry refused to rise to the bait. 'In my experience, it's always good to have two people in on any interview. One needs to be asking the questions at any time, but the other can observe subtle reactions from the interviewee that might escape the officer who is concentrating on what is being said.'

Malfoy gave Harry an odd look, as though he were surprised to have received a civil answer. 'That sounds reasonable. In that case, I think we should contact Mr Bustamant this morning. The note on the file says that he's a Squib as well as a policeman, so that should make things easier.'

'He's probably retired,' Harry said. 'This was all twenty-five years ago.'

'Then he's more likely to be at home. Eat up. The sooner we start, the sooner we'll know if we're on a plausible case or a wild goose chase.'

Harry grinned at the rhyme, Malfoy looked embarrassed as he realised it.

'So it's really just the two of us in this department?' Malfoy asked between sips of tea.

'For now. I imagine we'll be able to bring more people in once we start dealing with larger cases.'

'Which will require us to succeed with this one?'

Harry shrugged. 'I don't know. Kingsley clearly thinks we can, but none of these cases would still be open if they had simple solutions. There was a lot of political goodwill towards all members of the Order of the Phoenix just after the war: I would have expected that this would’ve been looked at back then, which means it was put into the too-hard basket.'

'Neither of us were here then,' Malfoy pointed out. 'I'm cleverer than the average Ministry employee, and you're more tenacious.'

'Nicest thing you've ever said about me, Malfoy,' Harry said with a grin.

'Simple observation. Listen, if this all goes horribly wrong – because really, it is all about Dawlish shitting on your career – I don't want to go down with you.'

Harry wasn't offended. In fact, Malfoy's straightforwardness was refreshing after seven years with the Aurors, where obfuscation was the official language. 'You won't. Kingsley's put you here for three reasons. I think he must have known that the Sirius case would appeal to you as much as it does to me, and you have to admit, it's a public relations coup having the two of us working together, but mostly, I think he genuinely believes you are very good at your job. I think that Kingsley just expects the two of us to excel, based on our past records. If I cock up, you'll just go back to Mysteries. Probably with a slight increase to your budget, yes.'

'Right.' Malfoy looked his tea for a moment. 'So it's that simple, is it? We're the best and brightest and it will look good for the Minister if he can get us to play nicely together and clear up his outstanding cases.'

Harry nodded. 'I think it is.'

'Harry!'

Ron was waving at him from over near the teapots.

Malfoy followed the voice and frowned. 'Ah. That would be my signal to trot off and pick up a few supplies. See you back at the office in fifteen?' He pulled a handful of coins from his pocket. 'How much do I owe you for breakfast?'

'Nothing,' Harry said. 'It's on me.'

'I'd rather pay,' Malfoy said. 'It's not as though we're friends.'

Harry reminded himself that he had been optimistic about this being a new start in his dealings with Malfoy, less than an hour ago. 'We're coworkers. You can pay next time.'

Malfoy thought for a moment, then nodded. 'All right. See you shortly, then. Weasley, good morning.'

Ron mumbled something in reply and waited until Malfoy had taken a few steps before he opened his mouth.

'Don't say it!' Harry forestalled him.

Ron made a hand gesture that indicated he considered Malfoy a keen seeker of masturbatory pleasures instead. Harry ignored him.

'So what the hell is going on, mate? Hermione and I tried to get you at home this morning, but Kreacher said you'd already left. It's an outrage. What are we going to do about it?'

Harry swallowed his toast. 'For now? Nothing. Or, more to the point, everything.'

Ron looked at him. 'Buggery bollocks. You're off on another of your crusades, aren't you? Harry, they're pairing me with Robards. You can't just … Oh crap. I know that look. You are, aren't you. Right. Tell me all about it.'

********************************

The edited version of the morning took somewhat less than fifteen minutes for Harry to tell Ron, so he was back at their office just before Malfoy. Kingsley's people had done a good job: there were two plain desks, a row of filing cabinets and two walls of bookshelves neatly jigsawed into the front room. In the back room, a long table dominated the space, with a stone sink and taps at one end and a spry man installing an extractor fan in the ceiling. Shelves lined the walls of this room, too, and several of them were already covered in cauldrons, chemicals and flasks of herbs and other ingredients.

Harry noticed that his own spare red Auror robes were on the coat rack, and that his work broom was tucked behind it, just as Malfoy returned, laden with a large box and a stack of scrolls tucked under one arm. A leather work-coat and formal black Unspeakable robes were attempting to slide off the top of the box, Harry stepped forward and caught them.

'Thank you,' Malfoy said, not ungraciously. 'If you could put the robes on the rack, I'll take the coat into the laboratory.'

'I'll do it,' Harry offered, and did. Malfoy placed the box carefully on the table before stowing the scrolls. Harry draped the coat over the back of the tall-backed chair in the corner, noting the scorch marks and stains that showed it had known hard use.

From the box, Malfoy pulled three sets of goggles, which he lined up on the corner of the table, then a face-shield and a set of earmuffs.

'Do things explode often?' Harry asked.

'I'll reinforce the door. And no, not that often. Moderately often. On the low side of moderate. Usually only when I'm experimenting.'

'I'll bear that in mind. Are you good to go?'

''I'll just grab these,' Malfoy said, snaring a row of small glass vials held together by leather thonging from out of the box. He went to tuck them into the pocket of his working robes, but stopped at Harry's frown. 'What is it?'

'We're going to interview a Squib, who lives in the Muggle world …'

'No robes?'

'No robes.'

Malfoy nodded, and reached inside the box again, drawing out a leather satchel that looked sufficiently like something a bike courier would use to pass muster. He tucked the vials inside it and unbuttoned his working robe. 'Is this shirt all right?'

'It's fine, but you'll need a coat to look professional. Just something light, it's meant to be hot today. I usually just transmogrify my uniform and then change it back later. Saves time.'

Malfoy nodded, and touched his wand to his robe with a whispered incantation.

'Maybe something a little less ornate?' Harry suggested, altering his own clothes as a demonstration.

Malfoy nodded and followed suit, creating a black wool jacket that covered him neatly from neck to hip.

'That's good. Here, you'll need this. We use Muggle IDs whenever we have a crossover case. So if you end up in Muggle custody for any reason, insist on having the Ministry of Defence called in. Their top brass know about us.'

Malfoy looked at his card and nodded. 'So, do we Apparate? Or do we have to go by train?'

'Trains to Bedfordshire take too long. We'll Apparate and then just walk the last. He's in Barnfield in Luton, and the map says there are gardens nearby. They should provide enough privacy. As long as we don't cock it up and appear in the middle of the college, we should be fine.'

'Have you been there before?'

'Once. I can side-along you if you haven't.'

Malfoy frowned.

Harry met him halfway. 'We do that a lot in the Auror Corps. It's just practical if one person knows the area better than the other. Better than Splinching.'

Malfoy nodded. 'Fine. Do you normally leave the Ministry first?'

'Merlin no,' said Harry, taking hold of Malfoy's upper arm and Apparating the two of them to Bedfordshire.

They appeared in a quiet council garden, with no-one in sight. Harry had copied the map of the area onto a page of his notebook, and led them quickly down two neat and tree-lined streets to the last known address for William Bustamant.

According to the brief notes in the file, Bustamant was a Squib, whose younger sister had attended Hogwarts from 1974 to 1980. He had joined the Metropolitan Police in the mid 1970s and had been a promising Detective Sergeant at the time of Sirius's arrest. The Auror in charge of the investigation had left a note praising Bustamant's competence and efficiency. It also noted that he had been on the scene only shortly after the explosion had taken place.

Harry had half-thought Bustamant's house would be in one of the post-War developments, but the address was a pleasant detached brick dwelling near the River Lea. The garden was a mix of flowers and vegetables, with pots of chilli and okra bathing in the late-July sun. The paved path to the front door was neatly swept and edged with patio roses in a riot of reds and oranges.

The door opened before either of them had a chance to knock. A medium-height young woman with dark skin and a darkly suspicious look greeted them. 'Yes? What is it?'

Harry held his card out to her and kept his back militarily straight. 'I'm Harry Potter, this is Draco Malfoy. We're from the MoD. We were wondering if William Bustamant was still at this address?'

She peered at his card, then at the one Malfoy submitted for investigation. Twice she flicked between the photos on the cards and their faces. 'Special Forces …' She looked more closely at Malfoy's coat, then his boots. Only now in the bright sunlight could Harry see they were both embroidered with black silk. 'No you're not.' She leaned back into the house and shouted. 'Dad, there's two men here. They're Funnies.'

Harry managed not to roll his eyes. The slang for Wizards had caught on among those who came across them professionally – usually paramedics, members of the armed services, the Metropolitan Police and most local police forces – except for the Welsh who couldn't be bothered with politeness and called them the wackos. For the most part the people who used the word had no idea that wizarding Britain existed, only that there were people and events that could not be explained, and that were hidden from normal channels by government sanction. Harry suspected that half the stories of aliens living amongst us had come about through rumours that began with an Auror and an MoD ID card.

A tall man appeared in the doorway behind the young woman and looked out at them.

'Mr Bustamant?' Harry guessed. 'I'm Harry Potter, this is Draco Malfoy. We're here about the explosion in Hackney in 1981.'

'Let them in, Iris,' William Bustamant said.

The woman stepped outside and waved an arm graciously to indicate they should enter. Harry noted she put herself in a perfect position to tackle either of them should they cause any trouble. She had police written in large metaphorical letters above her head, and in literal ones on the stab vest that was hanging up just inside the doorway.

William Bustamant was tall and somewhere around sixty, but he walked with a slight limp, which slowed down his otherwise vigorous stride. 'My daughter doesn't think that people should bother her aged father now he's retired,' he told them, leading them through the main part of the house and out into a sun-filled kitchen filled with the fragrances of fresh bread, spices and vinegar. A middle-aged woman with an utterly splendid profile was sitting at the table. She looked up at them in surprise. 'This is my wife, Elizabeth,' Bustamant said. 'These two gentlemen are from the _Ministry_ ,' he informed her.

'You're _them_?' she asked. 'William's sister is one of your lot. And my uncle and cousins.'

Harry shot a quick glance at Malfoy. His eyes were wide, but he was otherwise containing his reactions well.

'We're here to ask your husband for his help on a case he investigated back in the early 1980s,' Harry replied noncommittally.

'You weren't even born then,' said the young woman – Iris – who had followed them through the house.

'We were, actually,' said Harry. 'Mr Bustamant, would you have some time? It should only take half an hour or so.'

William Bustamant nodded. 'But not here. I'm assuming we can't go to your offices?'

Harry frowned. In theory, Squibs were exempt from the Statutes of Secrecy, for obvious reasons. But in practise …

'We'll go to my office,' Bustamant said, opening the back door.

Iris took a step forward. 'Dad, you don't have to. Or I can come along.'

'They're not here to cause any harm, pet,' Bustamant said with a smile. 'It's a professional visit, and I've always had time up my sleeve to help out you young ones.'

Iris did not look impressed, but she sat at the table with her mother and left them to follow Bustamant outside.

'She's a DI, you know,' he said. 'Ten years earlier than I was. She's staying with us until my knee finishes healing, wouldn't let any of the other three do it, despite it being a long commute for her. You can't blame her for being suspicious, trouble does tend to follow your lot.'

Harry kept silent, and was pleased to see Malfoy had the sense to do the same.

Bustamant led them down a gravel path to a well-made timber shed, past what looked like a small market garden. 'Elizabeth wins prizes for her pickles and chutneys at every show,' he told them. 'My mother and her mother both left her their recipe books, full of old Kittitian versions of British food. The WI think it's exotic, even though we're second-generation and it's half Mrs Beeton, but Bedfordshire is less cosmopolitan than Shoreditch was. I grow whatever she wants. It's a good way to spend my retirement, out in the sun, getting some exercise, with a shed.'

He held open the door for them. The area just inside did resemble a traditional potting shed, with stacks of small pots, cloches and frames alongside bags of compost and sulphate, tools hooked to the wall in practical order. But then came a wide doormat, for scuffing off the dirt, apparently, then two sofas, a small television and fridge, and a bookshelf crammed with a mix of books: gardening, mysteries and crime.

'My office,' he announced. 'Care for a cuppa?'

An electric kettle stood on a tray atop the fridge, with cups, teabags, sugar and honey.

'Black and one, thanks,' said Harry, who didn't need it, but accepting a drink always smoothed over the start of any conversation.

'White, if you have milk,' said Malfoy, following Harry's lead.

'Proper milk,' Bustamant replied with a wink. 'If they ask you, it was low fat, right?'

Harry was pleased to see Malfoy nod conspiratorially, even though he would bet he had no idea what Bustamant had meant.

'So,' said Bustamant, switching the kettle on. 'That "gas explosion" has finally come back to haunt me. I knew it would. Everything about that was wrong, but none of your lot wanted to listen to me.'

Malfoy shot Harry a surprised expression, one Harry suspected he mirrored.

'That man they took in, he wasn't right. He was laughing. Kept saying they had it all wrong. I think he'd been hit in the head, I was going to check him for a concussion, but before I could, your lot had him down on the ground and cuffs on, then _whoosh_ , out of there.

'I thought at the start it was a weird one. I was just around the corner when it all happened, on my way back from a fatal MVA. I could hear the shouting, so I went to turn into the street and just as I did, the blast hit, and it was like something out of a war – huge hole in the road, awnings down, people blown through windows. Can you pass me the milk? It's just inside the door.'

Harry did as asked, then accepted his mug of tea in return. Bustamant joined them on the sofas.

'I thought it was the IRA. There'd already been two attacks that month. That's why I wasn't worried about that man your lot went after: he wasn't the type. Posh, English, just standing there in the debris. He looked as though he was in shock, I think there was blood in his hair, but I didn't have time to look at him closely, I had one man who'd had the top of his arm sliced through and I had to get a girl to hold it shut – she was marvellous, didn't flinch. Then there was a boy who'd been thrown against a wall, we used towels from the haberdasher's to keep his neck rigid. One woman had her foot half blown off and I didn't even notice her for the first seven minutes. She made her own tourniquet from her scarf and a bit of one of the awnings. Got a stranger to tighten it for her. He just did what she told him. She said she'd been a Guide and remembered her first aid. We got her and the bleeding man into the first ambulances, the second lot were there only a couple of minutes behind.

'Then your lot came in. They went straight for that tall man. No rights, no questions, just knocked him off his feet. I shouted at them, came running over, warrant card out. Their top chap went to stop me and that's when I saw the robes: red, with the embroidery. I'd seen them earlier that year when Mary, that's my sister, was going out with one of your lot, and I think I just said, "Aurors. I should have known," and his attitude changed completely, and suddenly I was part of the team and we were going to make sure no-one had seen anything that would upset them.'

Bustamant shook his head. 'It wasn't right, what we did. They were shocked and confused and we meddled with their minds.'

Harry nodded. 'If it helps, I've found that people are usually relieved when they have a simple explanation for something that seems inexplicable.'

'But they can do that for themselves. And they do. There's no call for anyone to mess with their heads.'

'I agree,' Malfoy said, to Harry's surprise. 'But we are a nervous community. You have to understand that over the course of history, a lot of our sort have suffered at the hands of …'

Bustamant finished the sentence for him. 'People who were scared, or jealous. Who didn't understand because no-one explained anything to them.'

Malfoy nodded, soberly. 'Yes. And they can be vicious.'

'True,' Bustamant agreed. 'Now, you tell me the rest of the story.'

Harry kept his expression carefully blank.

Bustamant leaned forward. He was a physically imposing man, but his body language spoke reasonableness and containment. 'If there wasn't more, you wouldn't be here. I spent thirty-seven years in the Met, young man, I know how things work. I've given you a full and clear statement. If you ask, I'll dig out my notebook for that time and provide you with my written record. In return, I would like you to do me the courtesy of explaining what the hell went on that day.'

'There was a war,' said Malfoy.

Harry frowned at him, but was roundly ignored.

'One of us, a madman, set out to amass enormous personal power, and murdered his way towards it. The night before the explosion, he …' Malfoy flicked a look at Harry. 'He attacked a young family and killed most of them. He, too, was apparently killed in the process. Emotions were running high the following day: the family had been a central part of the war effort, and it was thought one of their friends had betrayed them.'

'The tall man,' Bustamant guessed.

'Yes. His name was Sirius Black. It was thought he caused the explosion while attacking another friend, a man named Peter Pettigrew.'

'The one he was shouting at.'

'That's right. Since then, evidence has come to light that strongly suggests Pettigrew was the source of the explosion and that he intentionally framed Black. Black spent years in prison and died before his name could be cleared. Pettigrew is dead, too. We were hoping you could put us in touch with the witnesses who survived so that we could have a go at reconstructing the crime scene.'

'But how will that help? They had their memories changed.'

Harry answered this time. 'We may be able to reconstruct their original memories, depending on what spells were used.'

'Spells …' Bustamant shook his head. Harry realised it was the first time any of them had referred directly to magic. 'Will that harm them?'

'No,' Malfoy assured him. 'What I plan to do won't change a thing, it will just give us a clear record of what they saw, whatever is still stored in their memories.'

'All right.' Bustamant stood up. 'Let me find my notebook. I took names and addresses of about fifteen people that day. We should be able to find some of them at least. Iris can help if we need it.'

Harry gave Malfoy a small smile. Technically, he should have reprimanded him, but Squibs really and truly were a grey area, so technically he might not be in breach of anything, and Bustamant had responded well to Malfoy's honesty.

Bustamant was rummaging behind the fridge. Harry stood up and realised there was a small safe secreted away beneath a pile of magazines. It was open, and filled with black-covered notebooks. Bustamant found the one he was looking for and locked away the rest.

'October to December, 1981,' Bustamant said. 'I can scan the pages for you.' He looked at both of them. 'Or you have some magic thing that lets you do that, don't you?'

'Yes,' Harry admitted, taking his wand from its pocket inside his coat. 'Do you want to show me which pages we should be looking at?'

Bustamant flicked through the book filled with neatly pencilled print. A column was left free down the left hand side of every page, with notes added into it at intervals. Harry admired his method. It was similar to the one he used himself, and probably learned from a similar source. Harry's style of Auroring had not been what Dawlish and others within the Ministry had been expecting. He wasn't sure if they thought he'd just shout ' _Expelliarmus_ ' whenever confronted with a bad 'un, but he had worked hard all through his fifteen months of training to develop as full and thorough a set of skills as possible. Where others waited around for a case to reach a crisis where they would be able to Apparate in and grab the bad guys mid-evil deed, he started most cases trawling through paperwork and seeking to establish connections.

While many preferred the quiet knock on the door in the dead of night, Harry was more the loud statement of arrest in the full light of day, so everyone knew what was happening, and why.

He had two secret advantages. A childhood filled with his Aunt and Uncle loudly decrying his innate criminality had meant that he was well known to the local Plods who had one and all kept a close eye on him as a boy, and also one and all declared that he was all right, really, and that if he studied hard he'd get into university and never need see any of that lot again. From them he had learned the benefits of listening, and of passive policing, where merely standing around somewhere obvious meant that most crime didn't happen. Constable Stebbins, who had been a frequent school visitor and very keen on the topics of road safety and stranger danger, had once told a class of fascinated ten-year-olds that a policeman's best friend was his notebook. Harry had found this to be true: merely pulling his notebook out had a dramatic effect on people's willingness to assist. And if yours, like Bustamant's, was full of as many details as you could gather, then in a later period of quiet reflection, it was amazing how much use you could get out of it.

And then there had been DI Frank Burnside, the best character on Uncle Vernon's favourite television show and one who shouted loudly enough to be heard even through the cupboard door. Harry had pinched many of his best lines over the years, and lived for the day he would arrest a gang and be able to declare: 'They've got a combined tonnage of six, which is coincidentally also their average IQ.'

Bustamant came to a stop in his flicking. 'Here. And up to here. The phone numbers won't be any use to you; they've all changed since then, but some of them may be at the same addresses.'

Harry nodded, and touched his wand to the pages, then to his own notebook, transferring the information exactly.

'That's a neat trick,' Bustamant said. 'Now, do you have telephones, or computers, or any way of finding out whether these people are still alive and where they live now?'

'No,' Harry admitted. 'What usually happens next is that I approach the MoD liaison with a list, then they go through their channels, then in a few days, they get back to me.'

Bustamant shook his head. 'Things were faster than that even in the Seventies. Sit back down, lad. We can do better than that.'

He reached beneath the sofa and pulled out a silver rectangle, which Harry recognised as a laptop computer. 'BT to start,' said Bustamant. 'We'll throw in the name and address, and if they're still there, the phone company will give us their new number.'

It involved a little fiddling, but at the end of ten minutes they had four matching names, addresses and numbers from the list. Malfoy was perched on the arm of Bustamant's sofa, watching intently as the typed names disappeared and were replaced by information spewed forth from a distant database.

'We could never make this work in the Ministry,' he told the ex-policeman. 'Too much magic, it interferes with the power these things run on. But we're idiots if we keep letting the MoD take days to get back to us.'

'They probably have a few dozen forms they need to fill in before they can do anything,' Bustamant said in fairness. 'There are all sorts of ethical considerations when it comes to privacy in the official sphere, but a lot of the general public don't give a damn about any of that. Iris was telling me they have a thing called MySpace now where they even put up when they're going on holidays, for the convenience of your local house-breaking professional.'

The three of them shook their heads in agreement at the stupidity of far too many British civilians.

Bustamant closed the computer. 'But you have somewhere to start, now. Mary Dacre, John Lumley, Thomas Wentworth and Anne Russell. I remember her, she was the woman with the foot. You should start with her: astonishingly clear-headed. Lumley was one of the shopkeepers, your lot spent a lot of time with him, he might be good, too.'

'Thank you,' said Harry.

'Oh I'm not doing this for free,' Bustamant said. 'I want you to come back and tell me what happened. Let me know if all those people are all right. Reassure me that I didn't stand by while your lot scrambled their minds.'

Harry recognised the look on Bustamant's face. He, too, would give anything to know that his own involvement in the wars hadn't caused any collateral damage. But while he came with a long list of dead, from his parents to Ted Tonks, Dobby to Colin Creevey, Bustamant did not.

'You could come with us,' he offered. 'The interviews might go more smoothly if you were there.'

Now it was Malfoy's turn to look surprised. Harry was perversely pleased to be on the receiving end of his glare.

'And it would give you a chance to see that our methods are uninvasive,' Harry continued.

Bustamant looked at him thoughtfully. 'This is the fifth or sixth time I've crossed paths with your lot,' he said. 'And the first in which any of you have offered up any information.'

'A new Ministry for new times,' Harry said, parroting Kingsley's slogan only a little ruefully.

'Your own version of Operation Countryman, I'm guessing,' said Bustamant. 'And neither of you have any idea what that means, do you? Not to worry. I would very much appreciate joining you if it is possible.'

'Good. So, do you need anything?'

'Jacket, walking stick, wallet and phone. Your friend could probably do with plainer clothes if you plan to convince anyone you're really with Counter-Terrorism.'

'I'll fix it outside,' said Malfoy. 'Away from your technology.'

'Good man. What do you plan to tell them?'

'We thought as you did,' Harry said. 'IRA. Say that we've received new information that leads us to believe it was another attack and that we're trying to see if we can bring about a prosecution.'

'Plausible,' Bustamant agreed. 'So, let us return inside to explain to my understanding wife and slightly fierce daughter why I will be spending the day on an outing with the two of you.'

Harry was pleased to see that Malfoy's jacket and shoes were unadorned by the time the reached the house's back door. He was less pleased to see that Iris Bustamant had an extendable baton tucked beside her newspaper on the table, but it did speak well for her as an affectionate daughter, so he pretended not to notice.

'I am heading out with these two,' William Bustamant announced as he led them in.

'Not by yourself, you're not,' Iris muttered.

Elizabeth left the room and returned with a sturdy walking stick and a tan canvas jacket. 'Do you need any extra money for lunch or taxis?

Bustamant took them and kissed her cheek. 'No, I'll be fine. I can catch the train home if I have to. If my knee plays up, I'll call you from the station and you can pick me up.'

'Take your phone.'

'I'm just getting it now.'

Iris Bustamant stood up and went after her father. Although she didn't even bother to glare at them, Harry noticed that she had the sort of build that spoke of many hours in training. Probably throwing people and things, given the look of her upper arms and speed of her stride.

Harry couldn't hear what they were saying in the other room, but from the 'It will be fine' and 'You need to get in to work, you are cutting it fine even for an afternoon start' that Bustamant called behind him as he returned to the kitchen, he could offer an educated guess as to the conversation.

'All right, gentlemen. Shall we go?'

Harry thanked Mrs Bustamant for her hospitality, and was pleased to see Malfoy do the same. 'You are more than welcome here,' she said, smiling. 'Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, wasn't it?'

'Yes,' said Harry, aware she was taking their names for the record.

'I will see you later, when you return William.'

'Yes,' said Harry, emphatically.

Bustamant chortled all the way out the front door. 'I see you have the right attitude to dealing with wives.'

'Never, ever get in their way,' Harry said fervently. 'Same for mothers. Same for every woman over forty who's not a homicidal psychopath.'

Bustamant stopped and looked back at him.

'Don't ask,' Harry said.

The fragrances of the front garden hit them afresh as they walked outside. Malfoy caught up with Bustamant. 'You said we should start with Anne Russell. Downs Park Road?'

'It's what I would do. Where's your car?'

'No car,' Malfoy said, grinning. 'Are you up for an adventure?'

'No car …' Bustamant looked at them both. 'You're not going to…'

But Malfoy already had.

********************************

Harry Apparated to a point in the park about twenty metres from Malfoy and Bustamant. He could hear Bustamant's laughter as he came out of the ether. 'So you just imagine the place, and then you go there?'

'In essence, yes,' Malfoy answered.

'And how do you make sure all your bits arrive in the right order?'

'Practise, concentration.'

'And people don't see you?'

'Sometimes, but they usually just assume you were there all along and they failed to spot you.'

'It's disorienting.'

'You get used to it. Potter's arrived, which way do you think it is from here?'

Bustamant led them left out the front of the park, and down a long street, past a row of shops and terraces in varying states of repair. He walked swiftly, despite favouring his right leg. He had a few inches on each of them, and there may have been a tiny amount of scurrying to keep pace, but neither of them would have admitted to it.

Anne Russell's house was freshly painted and with the last of the wisteria not quite gone to seed.

'We should have rung,' Bustamant said as he pressed on the bell, but there was movement inside the house and the door opened within the minute.

A woman with a wave of swept-back white hair and wearing a navy blue trouser suit opened the door. 'Yes?'

'Anne Russell? My name is Harry Potter. This is Draco Malfoy. We're from the Ministry of Defence and we're investigating an incident you were involved in back in 1981.'

She looked at their cards briefly, then at Bustamant with concentration. 'I know you,' she said. 'You were there.'

'William Bustamant,' he said, nodding politely. 'Detective Sergeant back in those days. I'm assisting these two.'

'Well, you'd better come in. Cup of tea?'

Harry agreed, despite the protests of his bladder and Malfoy's urgent little head shake. She led them down a hallway lined with bookshelves into a sitting room with yet more books, several photos of a young Anne Russell and a young man, two obviously from their wedding, and one small white cat taking up an entire settee.

'Down, Milly. Let the gentlemen have a seat,' she said. To Harry's surprise, the cat moved. Mrs, he guessed, since she still wore a wedding ring, Russell smiled at them. 'I'll be back in a moment.'

She was, with a tray of matching tea things, including milk in a jug. She poured to order, and listened to their spiel.

'I always did wonder about that. There were so many terrorist incidents in those days. People forget. They think it's a new thing, and last year on the Tube and buses was simply awful, but really, it was every bit as bad back then. I mean, they went after the Queen and the Prime Minister. All those poor horses and policemen. And shoppers, children … So how can I help?'

'We were hoping you could tell us what you saw,' Harry said.

'Oh, it was a very long time ago … I remember mostly what happened afterwards. People running to help each other. You,' she looked at Bustamant. 'You were very good, moving between us, keeping everyone alive until the ambulances arrived.'

'Not everyone.'

Russell shook her head. 'There was nothing you could have done for those others. It was a terrible blast. I was on my way home from school, I was a librarian in those days, and I paused, because those two young men were having such a violent argument: I thought I might have to get involved. You wouldn't know it to look at me, but I was always very good at breaking up fights in the playground.'

'You remember the men?' Harry asked gently.

'I remember one of them. He was unusually good looking. Beautiful in the way men used to be a few years before that, with his hair down to his collar, and his clothes and boots all form fitting and black. He looked like a teenage girl's idea of Heathcliff – they forget he was probably black, you know, but it's all in the text,' she said to Bustamant. 'He was very angry, but very sad at the same time. That's what I remember about him, how beautiful he was, and how sad. I'm afraid I didn't get a very good look at the other one, and I don't know what happened to either of them afterwards.'

Malfoy coughed gently to attract her attention. 'If you were amenable to the idea, we have had some good results using hypnosis,' he said. ‘We’ve used it a lot with injured veterans, helping them to remember incidents, to recover from trauma. It’s completely safe and painless …’

Mrs Russell put down her tea cup. 'Hypnosis? How exciting. Does it require anything …?' She waved a hand vaguely.

Malfoy shook his head. 'I talk to you, while you focus on an object, and we see if we can access the parts of your memory that have been locked away.'

'It's that simple? How much will I remember? And what sort of object? A pocket watch?'

'You should remember everything that comes back to you. All we're doing is restoring your ability to access your own memories. It will be as though you are seeing it happen in front of your eyes. And I usually use, er, a stick.'

'And it's non-invasive?' Bustamant asked, looking narrowly at Malfoy.

'I promise you, all it does is allow what is there to become known.'

'And we can do it here?' Mrs Russell asked brightly.

'Now, if you'd like.'

'Can I have a quick word with Mr Malfoy first?' Harry asked.

Mrs Russell was surprised, but polite. 'Yes, of course. Would you like us to leave, or …'

'Not at all, we'll just step out into the hall for a moment.'

Malfoy drew in a breath as he followed Harry out. Harry put up a hand in a gesture of peace.

'I have faith that you know what you're doing,' he said, before Malfoy could get a word out. 'But, A, what are you doing? And, B, your equipment looks like … Well, it looks like wands and phials and cauldrons, because that's what it is. And they're used to wires and screens and things that go beep. That's what they think of as normal.'

Malfoy thought for a moment. 'That makes sense,' he said. He took one of the phials from his bag and drew out his wand. With a tap and a whisper, he changed it into a small black box with a screen, and wires trailing. He looked at it. 'How do you think we ought to attach the wires to her? We can't just stick them in her ears …'

Harry made an heroic effort not to laugh. 'So what are you going to do? Is it like Legilemency?'

'Exactly like, but with a little extra bit I’ve added. It projects and collects the memory. Perfectly safe spell, it just needs a willing subject and a little bit of effort. I’d remind you that I know nothing useful about hypnotism.'

'Of course. Right. Well, if you’re up to it, I'm thinking about a Muggle thing called electrodes. They're a bit sticky on one side and the wires go into the other side. Er, if you take a look inside my head …'

Malfoy looked at him, and Harry felt a light brush of another mind on his own. It felt nervous, though he supposed it was hardly likely that Malfoy would approach the task with the vigour of Snape, Voldemort or any of his Auror trainers.

'I think I can do that,' Malfoy said, and concentrated on his gadget. With another two passes of his wand, it looked suitably scientific.

'That should do it,' Harry agreed.

Malfoy kept the ex-phial in his hand as they walked back in. 'Mrs Russell, would you mind if we attached this to you while we work? It's a … a …'

'It looks like a portable EEG,' she said.

'Yes. Very much like that,' Malfoy said, and Harry thought the relief in his voice was really rather well disguised. 'I'll just attach these _electrodes_ to your forehead. The machine will show us an increase in brain activity if this works.'

'Oh, how clever.' Mrs Russell held her hair back and let Malfoy work. 'Now I'm sitting comfortably, do we need to turn the lights down or can you work like this?'

'This will be fine.' Malfoy paused. 'It's quite normal for you to literally see your memories. I can make sure that doesn't happen if you think you'd rather not.'

Mrs Russell gave him a long look. 'It will be fine,' she said after a moment. 'It was hardly my worst day. Let's go.'

Malfoy drew his wand and murmured some hypno-nonsense around an augmented _Legilemens_. 'Just keep your eyes on the stick. You are back in 1981, at the beginning of November,' he told her. 'You are walking home from school. Two men are arguing in the street …'

'I see them,' she said, and as she did, they saw them, too. Sirius floated in the air in the middle of the sitting room, Peter above the coffee table. Bustamant started as the figures materialised, but stayed silent. Harry was impressed, but said nothing.

'It's very strange, because they're acting as though they are in private, but it's mid-afternoon. The street is quite busy. The early workers are heading home and mothers are on their shop run. Most people pretend they can't hear them, but a few of us slow down, in case there's trouble. The tall one is calling the short one a traitor. Asking him how he could do it. Telling him they loved him, and he killed them. He's taking a step forward and then he stops. The short one is shouting that it wasn't him, that it could never have been him. And now he's angry. Saying that they all lied. That they never cared for him. Now he's twitching and shouting, saying "No!" But the tall one isn't doing anything. He's just standing there, with his hands out. So I take a step forward, because I think the small one is going to throw something, and there are men running towards them from the pub, because they think the same thing. And that's when the blast happens.'

Harry could see where her memories had been altered. Sirius's hand was closed around something, but there was no wand there. Pettigrew had his fist furled around something similarly invisible. The blast was a white-out of explosive force, blurred and muted.

She paused and swallowed. 'I'm on the ground. There's far too much blood. I have my scarf off, and there's a lump of wood beside me and I am reaching for it and I'm going to pass out, but then there is a man. He's very ordinary, but very calm and he asks me what he should do, so I tell him, and he does it, and I think he is simply marvellous. His name is Eric. We still exchange cards you know, every Christmas. Then the tall black policeman comes by and he starts chatting with me, and then he sees my foot and he stands up and shouts for the ambulance personnel, who have just arrived. He asks me how long it has been since we put the tourniquet on, then he pulls out his pen and he writes the time on my leg. I think how clever that is.

'The ambulance men lift me onto the trolley. Eric comes with me, he's carrying my handbag and my bookbag and he's found my hat. Oh. The beautiful man. He's still there. He's standing in the street, and he's covered in dust. I had forgotten that. And now they're shutting the door. It's all been so fast. I thought it had been much slower, but it was only a matter of minutes.'

Harry couldn't help himself. 'Before the blast, do you remember what they said?'

'Yes, of course, he said …' Mrs Russell paused. 'He said …'

They moment at which her memories had been removed was obvious: Pettrigrew shouting 'No', Sirius shouting 'Peter!'

'How strange. I know I heard more. I must have hit my head. Maybe that's how I lost my hat?'

'That's all we're going to get,' Malfoy said, quietly. He tapped the altered phial, then held his wand in front of Mrs Russell's face. 'On the count of three, you will wake up feeling refreshed and relaxed. You will remember everything, but it won't distress you. One, two, three.'

'Of course it won't distress me,' she said, patting his knee. 'It was twenty-five years ago. I came out of it with a few scars, but they were mostly physical.'

She rolled up her right trouser leg and showed what Harry was startled to see was a real ankle above her slim leather shoe, circumnavigated by a white scar. 'Absolutely wonderful work at the hospital. They told me I would probably lose it, but there was a team working on experimental surgical techniques, and in the end it healed in record time. Doesn't even trouble me now: I get worse from the hip I banged in the fall when it rains.'

'That's excellent news, Mrs Russell,' Malfoy said. 'You have very fine ankles.'

'Dreadful young man,' she said, smiling broadly. 'Now, was any of that any help?'

'Yes, very much so,' Malfoy said without hesitation. Harry nodded agreement.

'I can't help wondering if it mightn't be better all buried,' she mused. 'I mean, the Irish did have grounds for complaint. But not when there were innocent victims involved, don't you think? Some of the people on that street were just children, and one of them died. You can't overlook that, can you? Not if there's a chance someone did it on purpose?'

'No,' Harry said. 'You can't.'

They spent another half hour in pleasantries, and taking down Eric's details, and promised to update her with the results of the investigation, which Harry fully intended to do in an edited manner. Malfoy ended up with the cat in his lap, and Mrs Russell apologising for the large amounts of white hair shed onto his black trousers. But he apparently liked cats, so it was Malfoy's hand she held onto as they made their farewells.

'Do stay safe, won't you?' she said. 'And you, Mr Bustamant.'

'And you. It was very good to see you again, and to see you so well.'

Bustamant led them down Amhurst Road to Mare Street where the explosion had occurred. He walked ahead, and seemed to be thinking.

Malfoy started off striding to keep up with Bustamant, then stopped to drop back beside Harry, then walked faster to catch up to the Muggle, before giving up and lagging back with Harry. He gave Harry a few curious looks as they walked. 'Potter, are you all right?' he asked at last.

'Fine,' Harry lied. It had been one thing knowing what had happened on that day, but another seeing it. He hadn't realised that Sirius had hated Pettigrew so thoroughly because he had also loved him once, like a brother. _The same way I love Ron_ , he thought. Or, more accurately, Neville. Though Neville could never have committed a betrayal like that. But he had seen the moment when Sirius had wanted to kill Pettigrew, and had been utterly unable to do so.

Malfoy jogged ahead to catch up to Bustamant. 'Are _you_ all right?' he asked.

Bustamant stopped. 'That was your people who fixed her foot, wasn't it?'

'Yes,' said Malfoy.

'So you can do that.'

'Sometimes. Not always. But we would have tried for all of them, I think. Our people would have considered it their fault, and that they should do what they could.'

'Which makes up for everything, I suppose.'

'No,' said Harry, joining them. 'They were just trying to do what they could.'

'And you can see inside people's heads?' He was glaring at them.

'Not easily,' said Malfoy. 'Usually only when they let you. You don't need to be magical to keep someone out if you really want to. Whoever changed her memories could only manage it because most people trust the man with the official card or the uniform, and believe he has their best interests at heart. But we can collect memories that people give us access to. That's what the box does. Stores it up for later, so we can review it.'

Bustamant rubbed his eyes. 'Did you get what you were looking for there?'

'No,' Harry said.

'Are they all going to be like that? Where you can see things are missing?'

'Probably,' Harry admitted.

'But we might be able to see a pattern in the absences,' Malfoy said. 'Or stitch small clues together into usable ones.'

'Down this way then. John Lumley still has the newsagency.'

********************************

Lumley's newsagency was a short distance from the blast site, and one of the buildings that had had its windows blown out. The street had long since been repaired, but there was a plaque that spoke movingly of the 13 victims, one never identified.

Lumley himself still worked there most mornings, they caught him just as he was handing over to one of his staff members. He was the sort of man who, though in his mid-fifties, would have considered Harry and Malfoy contemporaries, and was exaggeratedly polite towards Bustamant, because he definitely wasn't racist.

'After all this time, eh?' he asked, peering at Harry and Malfoy's identity cards. 'Well, better late than never, I suppose. Come through, I'm upstairs. I was about to put the kettle on, can I tempt you with a cuppa?'

'Yes, of course,' said Harry, ignoring Malfoy's quiet groan behind him.

'I did think that story was suspicious, you know,' he told them as they arranged themselves around his mostly IKEA living room. 'Because I said to Ronnie, that's the missus, she works at the job centre, I said to her afterwards that it was amazing none of us ever smelled any gas. And I know they said it was well underground, but you would think that if that much had built up … Anyway, what can I tell you?'

Lumley turned out to be even keener on the idea of hypnosis with EEG feedback than Anne Russell had been. 'Does it have a printout?' he asked, lifting up the box as Malfoy attached the electrodes to his head. 'Only it would be good to be able to show Ronnie, wouldn't it? Prove I've got a brain and all.'

'No printout,' said Malfoy.

'No, too small to fit one in, I suppose. It's amazing what they can do with electronics these days. Suppose it uploads wirelessly?'

'Bluetooth,' said Harry, who had been mostly listening when Dudley explained his new phone last time they caught up. 'We can print it out back at the office and send you the readout.'

'That'd be champion, cheers. Just amazing. Right. So what do I do?'

Anne Russell appeared in Lumley's memories. He had heard the argument, tutted loudly about young people today with one of the customers in the shop. He'd gone to the door, planning to shout at them to shut up and shove off.

'That big bullying one was just shouting like a madman. Kept waving his fist. And the poor little fella, you could see that he just wanted to turn tail and run. There were a bunch of the locals who stopped to see what the problem was and I was just about to step outside and sort it all out, when …'

He had been luckier than most. A spate of robberies had seen him reinforce his door and install safety glass. Although he was peppered with debris, none of it was lethal, and the people who had been propelled into his windows came out of it with broken bones, not slashed arteries. He had run to the phone and called for ambulances and police, so he wasn't wholly without sense, though Harry noticed that he had taken the time to lock the till before he had gone outside to help.

But here, too, they could see the hands of the Muggle-Worthy Excuses team. The argument had been more muted from inside the shop, but Lumley had been watching Pettigrew closely towards the end, and he simply froze in position, some seconds before the blast. It, again, was a blur of white and heat, with no way to make out details.

Bustamant frowned at the two of them, and Harry shrugged. They had known they would not find it easy to go beyond the work of earlier wizards.

Lumley was less inclined to chat afterwards than Mrs Russell had been, but he also extracted a promise that they would keep him up to date. 'Because when you're involved in something like that, you want to know the details, don't you?’ he said, which Harry couldn't help agreeing was perfectly reasonable.

'Pub,' said Malfoy as they left the newsagency.

Harry looked at him in surprise.

'Pubs have lavatories,' Malfoy said.

Harry began to suspect that Malfoy might actually be as clever as he thought he was.

They lost man points for using the cubicles, rather than the urinals, but since Harry felt they were still involved in a little leftover metaphorical pissing contest, it would have just been far too weird. Bustamant was waiting for them when they came back, three meat pies with mash on the table in front of him.

'It's lunch,' he said, tucking in.

Halfway through his pie, he added, 'The secret is just to take one or two sips of the tea. You just need to show willing.'

Harry added that to his stash of invaluable copper tips. Normally his days were not back-to-back interviews, though if they were going to be dealing with cold cases in this office, he could see that they might well be in the future.

'Your people did a proper job on them,' Bustamant observed as they finished up.

'We have three more people we can talk to today,' Harry said. 'Then, if you wouldn't mind, we could ask Iris if she could chase down the others on your list. And we have more names, we can use our MoD contacts to see what they can find.'

Bustamant nodded. 'I'll ask her tonight.'

Malfoy pushed his plate away. 'Give it a few hours and we'll see where we're at then.'

'All right. We should call the others, see if they're home or if we can meet them somewhere.'

'Good idea,' said Harry. 'Can we use your phone?'

'Unless your wand has mobile coverage …'

He wasn't exactly sarcastic, but the interest he had shown at the start of the day, and the joy of Apparating, they had shifted into something darker.

'Mr Bustamant …' Harry began.

'Is it your leg?' Malfoy asked. 'We could see if the Healers could do anything about it. I've developed spells for a few of them, they owe me favours.'

'You leave my knee alone,' Bustamant whispered sternly. 'It's nothing to do with you. A stockbroker in a Range Rover making a left turn without looking. This knee paid off my mortgage, and I am happy to do all the physiotherapy it needs.'

'Sorry,' Malfoy muttered.

Bustamant stood up. 'Come on. You can owe me for the meal.'

********************************

Eric Partridge would be home at two for an hour. He lived in Highbury, so Harry paid for a cab, rather than worry about Bustamant's reaction to more Apparating. Partridge, agreed to help, but they had to be quick as he needed to pick up the children by three-thirty and his partner was unavailable.

His recollection tallied strongly with Anne Russell's. 'She's a lovely woman,' he said. 'She's met Bill and the girls, never forgets a birthday card.'

Partridge had not been as sanguine about the attack as Mrs Russell, nor as self-centred as John Lumley. As he recounted the events, he sweated, and Harry could see the ease which some long-gone wizard had tried to impart in his editing of the man's memories. It seemed Bustamant could, too, as he was quiet throughout their goodbyes.

'Thomas Wentworth should be next,' she said as he led them up the street. 'He's in Kennington, so we don't want to cab it. We can take the overground to Islington, then change for the Victoria Line and then the Northern …

'Or we could Apparate,' said Malfoy.

'It would be faster,' Bustamant agreed.

'Do you know the area?' Harry asked. It had been surprising enough that Malfoy had known of the existence of Hackney.

'Not really.'

'Fine. Let me.' He took both their arms, and transported them to a quiet driveway just around the corner from the station.

Bustamant looked around, then checked his notebook. 'It's not far from here. I was once called in on a particularly nasty murder just down that street. Chainsaw.'

Harry did not press him for details.

Thomas Wentworth, 45, activist, was not inclined to assist them with their enquiries.

'Is it compulsory?' he asked from his position at the top of the stairs, not inviting them in through the door.

'No,' Harry said.

'Though it would be helpful,' Malfoy added.

'Yeah, well I found that all very traumatising and I have no wish to relive the experience. Especially not if it's going to be used by the authorities to wage a campaign against an oppressed group.'

'We're just trying to establish the truth of events in 1981,' Harry began.

'Give up on that, your government makes up whatever it wants to fit the result it wants, doesn't it? I mean, look at Iraq …'

Bustamant's voice cut across. 'Thank you for your time, Mr Wentworth. We won't detain you any longer.'

Wentworth shook his head. 'It breaks my heart to see a brother mindlessly on the side of the Man,' he said.

'And it breaks mine to see a middle-aged man wearing cargo pants, but we move on. Have a good afternoon.'

'We could have Imperiused him,' Malfoy said as they walked back down the road.

'Do I want to know what that is?' Bustamant asked.

'No,' Harry said, quickly. 'And it's illegal, so we couldn't and wouldn't have done it.'

Bustamant gave them both a look. 'That leaves Mary Dacre, she's moved to Canterbury, but she's in town, so we won't need a car. You realise you two will need a car if you plan to interview any normal people who live in the country or the suburbs, yes?'

Harry hadn't given the matter any consideration, but Bustamant was right. 'I'll organise something,' he said. 'Malfoy, do you know Canterbury well?'

Malfoy looked at him as though they were back in fourth year. 'Shall we meet at the Cathedral?' he asked.

'It's the easiest.'

'I'll take Mr Bustamant.'

Two hours later they were once again full of tea and cream cakes, and had had a lovely walk around the Becket Shrine, where Ms Dacre was researching for her new book. Harry had a newfound appreciation of mediaeval iconography, but feared they were no closer to any answers as they thanked their gracious host and left.

'It looks like a wasted day for you boys,' Bustamant said. 'Though it has been enjoyable to get out and about. And I have more of an idea of what it is you people do in one day with you than in fifty-eight years of having a witch as a sister.'

'She doesn't do magic at home?' Malfoy asked. Harry cringed a little.

'No, Mr Malfoy, she does not. Not since we were small children and our older brother used to bully her for being strange. That stopped the day she turned all his words into dog barks. My father put in an urgent international call to his second-cousin in Nevis, complaining the whole time that there went the month's drinking money. A few hours later a nice little witch from your Ministry came round and put the situation back to normal, then our father sat us down and explained a few of the family peculiarities.'

He had started walking quickly again, applying his walking stick to the ground with thumping vigour. Harry and Malfoy strode to keep up.

'You look like decent people, and you have treated everyone kindly today, so I don't for one moment think that you intend to be hurtful when you just take me by the arm and move me miles across the city, or when you tell me that you can wave a wand and say some words and my leg will be better. But you have no understanding of what it is like to know that, but for an accident of birth … And the tragedy of it is that there's not a thing anyone can do about it. 

‘And I am not sure that I would want anything done, even if it could be. Mary has had dark days, and there was that time a few years back when she left her children with us and would not talk about what was happening. I do not think your world is entirely one of marvels.'

'Potter spent his childhood with the most powerful dark wizard of our times trying to kill him,' Malfoy volunteered.

It should not have worked as a tension breaker, but it did.

Bustamant laughed, and then stopped and looked at Harry, who shrugged.

'I'm still alive, he's not. It all worked out in the end.'

'And we're better off not knowing?' Bustamant asked with a raised brow.

'In this case, most emphatically yes.'

Bustamant stopped walking. 'I believe you. So. Will you want my help when you have more names? Or should we say our goodbyes?'

Harry started to talk, but Malfoy interrupted him.

'We haven't finished,' he said. 'I still need your memories.'

********************************

Iris had left for work long before, but Elizabeth Bustamant was still in the kitchen when they returned, presiding over a pot of something involving chicken and quite a lot of black pepper.

'That smells delicious, Beth,' Bustamant told her as he led them through the house.

She put her spoons aside to come over and kiss his cheek. 'You've brought your young men back with you. Are they here for dinner?'

'No, just one more thing we needed to sort out. We'll be in my office.'

'No drinking beer, we promised William and Amy we would visit them tonight.'

'I haven't forgotten,' he called back, leading them out into the garden. 'Anyway, these two are still on duty.'

He unlocked the shed and bustled them in, offering them bottles of craft brew from the fridge. Harry accepted one, raising it and saying, 'Two sips.'

'So you can be taught.'

Bustamant sat heavily on his preferred sofa and pulled the coffee table close enough to put his bad leg up on it. 'So.' He looked at Malfoy. 'You wanted to look inside my head.'

'If you allow it.'

'I didn't see the explosion. I was driving my car, and I wasn't close enough to see past everyone there.'

Malfoy was removing yet another modified phial from his satchel. 'I'm hoping to gain a better sense of what happened after the explosion. You were assessing the scene for victims, you would have looked at it closely.'

Bustamant nodded. 'That makes sense. You don't really need to attach that to my head, do you?'

'You can just hold it.'

'Give it here. All right, pull out your wand, let's get this done.'

Bustamant's recollections began as sound: the flick-flick of an indicator light, the engine of a Fiat, and loud shouting from outside the car. His hand, younger and stronger, reached out for the radio that was snugged into his dashboard. He announced his identification and asked for assistance from the nearby station. 'Altercation on Mare Street, crowd forming. I'm going to have a look, but uniforms would be a good idea …'

He was halfway through the turn when the car was hit broadside by the blastwave. They could see it bounce on its shocks, and Bustamant's head smacking into the back of his hand on the wheel.

'Shit!' His hand pressed the radio handset urgently, while he drove his car onto a bare spot of pavement and turned the engine off. 'Urgent assistance required! Urgent assistance! Significant explosion, I can see bodies and casualties. Full response required. Send whatever ambulances you have free, and get Bomb Disposal down here, there's probably more.'

He was out of the car before he finished speaking, tossing the radio back inside and slamming the door. He paused only long enough to grab a first aid kit from the boot before running into the cloud of dust. He went straight past Sirius, pausing only long enough to ask, 'Are you all right?'

'All right? _I'm_ all right,' Sirius echoed, and then Bustamant was past him, sprinting towards a man slumped outside the off-licence in a pool of rapidly spreading blood.

The next eight minutes was like being back at the Battle of Hogwarts. People groaned and screamed, and asked if they were going to live. Bustamant moved among them with calm determination, grabbing the uninjured and mildly bruised and pairing them with people in need of assistance. He gave clear instructions, assuring them they were doing excellently, and that the ambulances would be there very soon.

The scream of sirens came closer from several directions at once. Two PCs in uniform were first, one busied herself with first aid while the other began dispersing the crowd that had begun to gather, telling them they were in the way and that the ambulances would need full access up and down the road. Harry could hear his monotone of 'Move along' through the rest of Bustamant's recollection.

There was Anne Russell and Eric Partridge, he ran past John Lumley, and a shocked young man that Harry recognised as Thomas Wentworth. A teenaged Mary Dacre assured him that she was covered in someone else's blood and then the ambulances were arriving and he directed the first two to the heavily bleeding man and to Mrs Russell.

And then there was a crack of sound, ignored by most but not by Bustamant, and Aurors had Sirius on the ground and Bustamant waded in, shouting.

He had been polite, earlier that day. His actual words had been far more direct. 'Fucking Aurors, I do not think so. This is my crime scene on my patch and you are not contaminating it. Pack up your shit and put down that man and get the fuck out.'

The lead Auror had stopped, surprised, but only for a moment. 'We need to take him in,' he had said. 'He's one of ours. This is one of our problems and it's spilled out.'

'Well you can fucking unspill it.'

They could see in the remnants of the shop windows how thoroughly Bustamant towered over the Auror, but the Wizard had neither been cowed nor sought to intimidate. 'We've got a team coming in now. I've put them in high-vis vests, told them to tell everyone they're trauma specialists.'

They had lost this elegance of procedure in the chaos of the Voldemort years, Harry thought. He wasn't sure which of the Aurors who had been on the scene this was, but he made a mental note to find out, and to read his reports, because this was proper policing, restoring order and safety, even if they were horribly misguided when it came to the arrest.

Sirius was behind them, being dragged to his feet. He was shaking his head, and laughing: incongruously, ironically. 'You're entirely wrong,' he said, more than once, and then he was gone, along with the men who had been holding him.

'That's a bullshit arrest,' Bustamant told the lead Auror, but then he, too, was gone, and Bustamant turned to find his scene filled with men and women in orange vests, some of them climbing into the back of ambulances, some speaking gently to the casualties. He looked down the road in time to see Bomb Disposal appear, which finally saw off the crowd of onlookers.

'I think that's enough,' he said, in the present.

Malfoy tapped the phial with his wand and the projection of Bustamant's memories ceased.

'So. One more view to add to your collection, no closer to finding out what actually happened,' Bustamant said.

'Not at all,' said Malfoy, emptying his satchel. 'You've actually provided the final proof we needed.'

'I have?'

'He has?'

Malfoy gave a small smile. 'Potter, when you blast someone with your wand, what direction does it go in?'

'The direction you throw it,' Harry said.

'Exactly. Simple physics.' Malfoy tapped all the used phials with his wand and multiple images of the street appeared, with Sirius and Pettigrew seen from several angles. He flicked his wrist and the images all moved together into one, complex view, almost wholly three-dimensional.

'This is the street before the explosion. You can see where everyone is standing, the pile of magazines outside the newsagency, the overflowing bin. And this …' he twisted his hands and the picture changed, 'is the street afterwards. Sirius is still in the same position. There's a gaping hole where Pettigrew was. And Sirius is covered in debris, there are magazines at his feet, all that rubbish is flung up the street. Mrs Russell has been knocked off her feet back towards him. All the casualties radiate out from Pettigrew, and they are much, much worse in front of him than behind.'

Bustamant stood up and looked at the shapes in the air. 'The blast had to come from here,' he said, tapping the space where Pettigrew had stood.

Malfoy nodded. 'I needed to look at your memories, because they weren't modified. You didn't see what happened, so there was no point. But you agree in every detail with the dispersal of the materials and with the description of the crater. This is real. This is what was there. None of our people are on the scene yet. All of the lies they told later when they were faking the official reports and convincing people that what they saw wasn't real, none of it changes this. This is proof.'

'You're a very clever young man,' Bustamant said, approvingly.

'And I think that if we take our time to go through everything more carefully, we'll find a lonely finger, and images of a small rat running away. Mrs Russell described Pettigrew as twitching, and Lumley said he looked as though he wanted to turn tail. I think they made those connections from what they saw at the time and we'll find images to back them up, even if the links have been lost to their conscious minds.'

'A rat?' Bustamant sipped at his beer. 'You've lost me.'

'Peter Pettigrew could turn into a rat,' Harry said.

'Of course he could.' Bustamant thought for a moment. 'This dark wizard who spent his childhood trying to kill you; is he the homicidal lunatic behind the war that these two were caught in?'

'Yes.'

Bustamant nodded. 'And so, was that your family …?'

Harry nodded in return.

'I see. I have been less polite to you than I could have been today.'

'We dragged you out of your house across half the south-east and made you buy us lunch,' Harry pointed out.

'But you gave me answers.' Bustamant raised his bottle. 'Thank you.'

********************************

Kingsley gave them two days to write up their report, and open choice from the files for their next case.

'You've earned it,' he told them. 'I thought you'd do it, but in a month, maybe a week. Not one day. At this rate we'll run out of things for you to do by the end of the year.'

'If we're still going by the end of summer, I'll be amazed,' Malfoy muttered.

'I look forward to your amazement, Mr Malfoy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have three more meetings before my dinner engagement.'

Their office had been finished in their absence, and Harry was pleased to see a tray marked 'Solved' on the edge of his desk. He dropped Sirius's file into it.

Malfoy was busy turning his clothes back into their original forms.

'That was good work today,' Harry said.

'Yes, well, not everything has to come with a huge price tag and a corporate logo on the side to be a worthwhile piece of magic,' Malfoy said.

'You don't need to tell me,' Harry agreed. Then tried again. 'I was expecting you to be good at the spellcraft. You were good at school, you've worked hard since. I've seen your file, I've heard what the other Unspeakables say about you. What I meant was, you did good work on the Auror side of things, too. You adapted to changing situations, you thought on your feet.'

Malfoy shrugged. 'I had a theory and it paid off. It might not have.'

'Then we'd have just tracked down every single other name on those lists,' Harry said.

'You would have. I'd have come up with a good excuse for experimenting on something.'

Harry laughed. Then he realised he was laughing at one of Malfoy's jokes, and stopped.

Malfoy looked at him. 'We don't have to be friends,' he said. 'Both of us have friends. But you work hard, and you give a damn, and you care about the actual job rather than the political crap around it. And I think that is a good thing for an Auror. And I think that I can do the things you can't, and you can do the things I don't want to do. Which means that even if this department only exists until Dawlish is fired or gets over being pissed off with you, I think we can make it work.'

'I think we can do it brilliantly,' Harry corrected him. 'Which will really, really upset Dawlish.'

'I'm all for that,' Malfoy agreed.

'And it will really make a difference to people like William Bustamant,' Harry added.

Malfoy had been packing his bag, readying to leave. He put it down. He reached over to Harry's desk and took half of the stack of potential case files. He sat back down and began to leaf through them. He waited until Harry had, smiling, begun to do the same, before he quietly said, 'I'm all for that, too.'

_TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK..._


	2. Episode #2: The Lady in White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry receives a mysterious (and quite possibly cursed) note, and decides that this, like all good mysteries, must be investigated. Preferably with the help of one Draco Malfoy.

**Tuesday, August 9, 2006  
9:11am**

The white parchment unfolds like a rose blooming in Harry’s hands, quickens like stop-motion movies of plants and then falls still, the spell that animated it spent. 

The thorns lie within:

_Case No. 08297. The Fifth Room_ , it reads. 

Harry draws out his wand. “Reveal your secrets,” he says, imbuing his voice with the burr of magic. The spell is weak and nonspecific, but it should reveal something about whoever set the spell on the note without triggering any latent spells. 

The magic tells him nothing. Harry looks up to find himself scowling and quickly corrects his face as Dawlish’s secretary glares back at him from the doorway of the Ministry of Magic’s Division for the Investigation of Cold Cases (DICC). 

“Sorry, Parvati,” he says, smiling. “Are you sure you don’t know who gave you this note?”

She shrugs, dark hair brushing her shoulders. “Yeah. It was on my desk when I got in.”

Harry folds the note back down to its smallest size and looks over the outside of the parchment. He whispers a spell that sends it floating over the desktop between them. “It doesn’t have my name on it. Why did you give it to me?”

“It doesn’t?” Parvati walks forward and leans over his desk, peering at the parchment. Her robes are low and give Harry a clear view of her chest, though her breasts are small enough that there isn’t much to see. He tugs his gaze away just as her wide-set brown eyes look up. “I could have sworn it had your name on it. I’m sorry. I just knew it was for you as soon as I picked it up.” She reaches out. “I’ll take it back. The Head must know who it’s for.”

If Dawlish takes the note, Harry will never get it back. He pulls the paper close to his chest, and the parchment’s corner pricks at his throat. “That’s alright, Parvati,” he says. “If you felt the note was for me, you were probably right. I’ll look into it.”

Parvati draws back, wand in her hand. “Now that I think about it, Harry, I think it was spelled so that I’d give it to you. It’s probably cursed.” Her tone is calm, but the crease between her brows shows how concerned she is. 

Harry nods and leans back in his chair. The seat creaks. “Possibly,” he says. “Knowing my luck, it’ll be a nasty curse, won’t it?” His smile is crooked.

Parvati sighs and sends him an exasperated look. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this,” she says, letting her wand fall to her side. “It’s been years. Can’t you just let it go?” She glances at the note once more, and her wand twitches as if she wants to summon the parchment from his grasp.

“Never,” he says. “I always need a new mystery.”

She laughs. “I hope you don’t end up in St. Mungos,” she says, half turning towards the door, and Harry almost laughs with her. That’s turning out to be a far too regular occurrence as well. 

He smiles and nods. “Me too.”

Once Parvati has gone, though, the potential danger enclosed within the white parchment pinched between two fingers becomes more apparent. He lays the note carefully down on his desk and glances over to Malfoy’s. 

It’s nearly bare, and what few supplies are set upon it are neatly organized and laid out at precise angles relative to the desk’s edges. Harry isn’t remotely surprised at Malfoy’s neatness, especially as he hardly uses the desk at all. He confines his experiments – and the mess that comes with them – to the back room of the offices that they share. Right now, Malfoy isn’t even in. 

Harry would be interested to see what Malfoy makes of his little note. He could certainly spend another hour or more running tests on the note to find hidden spells, or even take the note across the Ministry and attempt to drag Hermione away from of her ceaseless research to take a look at it. 

But asking Malfoy to cast a few spells will likely be quicker and more productive. Even if it means taking the note to Malfoy’s flat. 

Harry stands suddenly and the chair screeches against the floor. He flicks his wand at the note and it flies up into the air, fluttering into his grasp as he moves. He slips between the two desks and walks out, hearing the office door lock itself behind him. 

The hall outside the DICC is quiet, as usual, but just around the corner are the Head Auror’s office, and the buzz of noise that drifts down the corridor towards Harry draws him in, until he finds himself looking round the corner slowly and carefully. 

The space outside the closed door to Dawlish’s office is packed, Ministry personnel taking up every bit of space; some obviously lingering in the hopes of getting in a quick word with the Head, and others just walking through, grumbling under their breath as they brush past unmoving shoulders. Overhead, paper aeroplanes swoop and soar with memos inscribed on their backs. Although Harry isn’t tall, he has to duck to avoid one as it veers through the space where his head was a second before. 

Harry slides the parchment into the pocket inside his robes for safekeeping. 

A door down the hall flies open and Ron strides through, face flushed almost as red as his hair. He stops dead as he nearly runs into the crowd. Harry watches, amused, as Ron glances around, his face quickly shifting from exasperation to happiness as he spots Harry and straightens. 

He waves from across the room. “Can I get in?” he calls, gaze darting past to try and look in to the Head’s office. 

“Not in,” Harry mouths, grimacing. Dawlish is almost never in the office so early in the day. _They should all know that_ he thinks, glancing towards the other witches and wizards. A few trail gazes over him and at least one such sticks. He avoids their looks and works his way over to Ron. 

“Wish I could keep that kind of schedule,” Ron mutters under his breath as Harry steps next to him. He steps out of the doorway and leans against the wall. “I’ve got to run this by him,” he says, waving a sheaf of parchments at Harry. He sees the glint of a Ministry seal, but little else.

“What are they?” Harry asks. The sheer variety of forms at the Ministry of Magic is staggering. Sorting through the scope of them had driven Hermione to exhaustion, and she’d once fallen asleep with her head laid on a stack of _Modern Miscellany & Magical Machinery Registration (19A)_ forms.

“Warrants,” Ron says with dark relish in his voice. “There’s been a kidnapping.”

Harry turns, staring. “Who? What happened?” Since the War, kidnappings have been rare and whenever one is reported, it causes a stir in the entire Auror Department. 

“You’re not on the case, so I can’t say, you know that.” Ron holds his smile back for a moment before bursting into a grin. “Okay, so listen to this: his name is Jacob Wilfing and he went out last—”

“Weasley!”

Ron jumps, nearly leaping away from the wall. Senior Auror Savage is standing in the doorway, all six feet of him looming with rank and superiority despite the rumpled state of his brown hair. He looks down his long nose at Ron and blinks his pale eyes slowly. 

“Chatting, are we? Where are the warrants I need?” He pauses and glances down, letting his gaze linger. “Ah. Still in your hand, I see.”

“Dawlish isn’t in,” Ron fairly shouts. His flush climbs up into his hairline. “Head Auror Dawlish, I mean. Sir.”

Harry eyes his best friend. Savage has a serious reputation for being terrifying, and even as a trainee he and Ron had heard tales about how harsh he could be with his subordinates. They’d also heard that he was one of the best Aurors working in the Ministry and that he had an almost ninety-seven percent arrest rate. Harry doubts any of that has changed in the years since, but he and Ron have so much more experience; it’s mad that Ron’s still scared of the man, even now.

“Well.” Savage’s thin lips purse and Harry wonders, for a second, which is the man in charge: Dawlish or Savage. “We’ve had a new development. The warrants will have to wait. Meet me by the Floo.”

Ron nods. “Yes, sir,” he says, and glances at Harry apologetically. “Later,” he hisses, then shoves the parchments into his robes and strides out the door. 

Savage lets him go and nods at Harry. “Auror,” he says, and sweeps out of the room. 

Desire seethes in Harry. He wants to be working on this kidnapping. He misses the thrill of knowing that what he’s doing might make the difference between life and death; that there’s someone depending on the facts he’s chasing down. Cold cases bring their own rewards, but they’re undoubtedly less urgent. Maybe he could just head up, take the lift from Level Two towards the surface and catch Ron and Savage at the Floo. He wouldn’t even need to tell them he was there, simply listen carefully and ride the tails of their robes to the other side, spinning out and into the kidnapping along with them. 

His heart pounds at the thought, but Harry knows it’s unrealistic. He’s already the chief of his own division; he should be happy with that. 

He sighs and reaches into his robes, brushing his fingers against the note. 

Parvati ‘just knew’ it was meant for him. There had to be a spell on it to send it his way, and it must be a particularly subtle and well-crafted one – Harry can’t feel the telltale charge of magic under his fingertips, and Parvati didn’t mention feeling anything either. 

He pulls it out and unfolds it himself. The handwriting is spindly and slim - letters spiked and looped and written by a hand which had fairly skimmed the nib of its quill over the parchment and barely pressed at all, leaving some letters half unfinished. 

Is it really cursed? He doesn’t feel any different yet, though the symptoms could be timed, or as subtle as the identification spell that must have been cast on it. It could be a simple note, but knowing Harry’s luck, what are the chances of that?

He’ll have to have it checked out, just to be sure it’s safe. 

He shoves the note away and heads for the Floo. He has some investigating of his own to do. 

//

**9:54am**

“Malfoy!”

Harry pounds at the door and tries to peer through the glass of the peephole. 

“What?” Malfoy calls after a moment, from what sounds like right next to the other side of the door, and Harry smothers the urge to jump in surprise. 

“It’s Harry Potter! Let me in, all right?”

The wards on Malfoy’s London flat are tight. Harry had tried to Floo in and been shunted three streets over to a crowded shop in Diagon Alley. Staggering through the startled shoppers and brushing ash from his robes had brought back memories of being twelve again, which hadn’t put him in a particularly good mood when he’d tried to Apparate in and found himself dumped on the doormat, bounced off the wards with his fingers and wrists and knees and toes feeling only tenuously attached. 

“Malfoy, let me in!” he snaps, patience at its breaking point.

“Another case already?” Malfoy calls. “Because after last time, I’m not sure—”

“Yeah,” Harry says quickly. “New case. Very important. It’s a kidnapping, and—”

Malfoy yanks the door open and Harry, who’d been leaning against it, nearly falls inside. 

“Thanks,” he says, turning his stumble into a step and walking in. 

The windows of Malfoy’s flat are flung open to the city, and the sound of traffic floods in, slipping between the fluttering curtains. Harry strips his robes off as soon as he steps through the door and moves to roll up his shirtsleeves, but can’t find a place to lay his robe down. It’s close in here, crowded with summer heat and books. 

There are books _everywhere_ ; crowded on the seats of Victorian-style armchairs, stacked underneath the mid-century coffee table, and overflowing from what appear to be several Ikea bookshelves. Books are lying opened beside crumb-covered plates and standing upright in the middle of the floor. Harry pauses and stoops, picking one up, glancing at the spine: _Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration_.

Ah. He gingerly puts the book down. 

“Would you like to reorganise?” Malfoy asks, closing the front door and snapping the lock shut with a flick of his wand. 

His neatly trimmed hair is darker than usual, touched with sweat, and there’s a flush on his cheeks. The sleeves of his white button-down are rolled with neatly pressed folds to his elbows and the top two buttons of his collar are undone. His trousers appear to be a light linen, with creases gathered at the hips from moving around. He looks harried, and Harry wonders what he’s interrupted. His thoughts flash back to that night in the bar, Malfoy’s hands all over Benjy Williams, his smile brilliant enough to catch Harry’s attention across the crowded room.

“You wanted me to look at a case?” Malfoy prompts, his tone insinuating that Harry must have forgotten his purpose in popping round. 

Harry jolts and nods. “Not quite.” He pulls the note from his robes and holds it out. “This came to me this morning. I want to know if it’s cursed.”

Malfoy throws up his hands. “I’m not your errand boy, Potter. Check it yourself.”

“I’ve tried,” Harry says “Can’t find anything. And since you’re the Unspeakable, I figured I’d ask you to take a look.”

Malfoy laughs. “I haven’t heard much asking lately.”

Harry’s fingers clench around the note. “Will you take a look at this for me?” He pauses, and when Malfoy opens his mouth to say no, adds, “Please, Draco?”

Malfoy startles and flushes, pink rising to his cheeks. “Fine,” he snaps, and flicks his wand at the note. It drags itself from Harry’s grasp with a little flutter and rises up.

  


Harry steps back to let Malfoy work. He looks to one of the armchairs, but the books that have claimed it as their home don’t seem inclined to shift, so he leaves them be. He watches Malfoy as he works on the note, lips barely parted to let spells slip through them, the tip of his slim wand glowing with the constant flow of magic, and the space around the note flashing with colour as each spell scribes its coded answers in the air for Malfoy to read.

Finally, he falls silent, and the note turns white once more. Malfoy stretches out his hand and the note falls into it. 

“It’s safe,” he says. “Except for the personalised directional spell – which is a handy piece of work – it’s free of magic.”

Harry nods and reaches out to take it back. “Thanks,” he says. “Good to know.” There is a heaviness within him that suggests that he had actually wished, somewhere buried deep, that it had been cursed, and that he would have to deal with everything that came along with that.

Malfoy pulls the note back. “Wait, wait,” he says. “I haven’t had a chance to take a look.” He unfolds the note, long fingers picking carefully at the folds, until it opens. 

He reads the words quickly and then looks up, honest confusion in his eyes. “What case is this referring to? Do you think it refers to the Fifth Records Room in the Ministry?”

Harry shrugs. “Don’t know. I came straight to you. I figured I would check it out if I was still breathing by the time you’d checked for curses.” He pauses, then dares a smile. “Would you like to find out?”

Malfoy blinks at him, incredulous. “Potter, are you asking me out?” After a pause so short that, afterwards, Harry isn’t even sure he heard it, he adds, “On another case?”

Harry laughs, letting tension fall from his shoulders. “Yeah, something like that. What do you say?”

As he looks out the window, Malfoy’s hands fold the note back up again. “Okay,” he says. “It isn’t as if I have anything better to do today.” He pushes the note into Harry’s hand and summons his cloak, catching it neatly out of the air. 

Harry pulls his own robes on as Malfoy rolls his shirtsleeves down and slips his robe on. He tucks the note safely away and holds out his arm. 

“Shall we?” he asks. 

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “When you’re ready, Potter.”

With an easy twist, Harry Apparates them to the Ministry.

//

**10:20am**

Black for murder, red for rape, purple for assault. Gold for theft and silver for treason. Blue for disappearances and kidnappings. Orange stripes to signify the use of magic. The darker the colour, the more severe the crime. The Records Rooms of the Ministry of Magic are more thoroughly organized than even Hermione could accomplish, given five years and an army of free elves, and Harry often wonders what manner of madman first conceived the system that currently fills the Rooms. 

The First Room contains files for open cases. Rooms Two, Three, and Four contain closed cases. The Fifth Room – the last Room – holds cold cases. It reaches far back into the Ministry, its extended space far deeper than that of any of the other Rooms. Shelves of coloured file-jackets and boxes scroll on and on until they’re swallowed by the darkness where the light doesn’t reach. 

Harry steps into the room and glances down at the note once more. 

_Case No. 08297. The Fifth Room_.

He’s in the Fifth Room. Almost there. 

Malfoy steps in behind him, head craned back to stare at the straining shelves above them. “Merlin,” he whispers. “This is going to take ages.”

There’s something about the Records Room that demands silence, as if all the parchment and crimes contained within them are another species of being, one that likes darkness and silence, and devours nothing more than the pleasant thoughts of those that dare to take a file down and read it. Little paper Dementors. 

The thought makes Harry smile despite himself. 

“We’re looking for oh-eight-two-nine-seven,” he whispers to Malfoy, stepping forward. “I think they start with zero on that end.” He points down the left-hand shelves. Malfoy eyes the stacks. 

“You’d best be right,” Malfoy says, volume rising, then winces and clamps his lips shut.

Harry offers him a half-smile and points down one of the nearby aisles. Malfoy nods and raises his wand. The tip lights as he disappears, bobbing luminescence to show where he’s gone, and Harry heads for another aisle.

Lumos proves to be a poor way to search for a file when the shelves holding said files rise seven levels high, far above Harry’s head, and are labelled with numbers too small to read even up close. Harry squints at the first and discovers that, by some luck, he’s found the oh-eight-thousands. 

He keeps walking, checking the numbers periodically, and when he feels he’s gotten close enough, tries to summon the file from the shelves above. 

File 08297 is a slim, light blue folder containing just a few sheets of paper. It flutters downward off its shelf, falling with dubious coordination until Harry can snatch it out of the air. He turns to go after Malfoy, then pauses. The note was meant for him, after all. Maybe he should take a look first.

He crouches, tucking his lit wand behind his ear.

Harry stares at the file for a moment. It’s so thin. He lets his hand rest on top of it. 

He opens the cover and reads the first few lines. 

_Case No. 08297_  
Disappearance -- Helena Malfoy, Age 18  
Opened Nov. 8th, 1981 – Closed June 17th, 1988 ( Unsolved)  
00592A082FPW 

Well, shit. He closes the folder and surges to his feet, striding down the aisle and catching his wand as it nearly slips from behind his ear. He shoves the folder under his arm and keeps moving. 

“Malfoy!” he hisses as loud as he dares, rounding the corner. 

Malfoy’s hair gleams in the dim light, far down the aisle. Cursing, Harry heads for him. 

“Malfoy!” he hisses again, and this time Malfoy turns. 

“Did you find it?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, and grabs him. “We have to go.”

Malfoy snaps immediately to alertness at Harry’s tone. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” Harry says. “Well, something, but nothing urgent.”

“So why are you dragging me out?” Malfoy’s tone rises wildly, but Harry doesn’t let him go. He can feel the pulse in Malfoy’s wrist, and his mind is swirling with the name _Helena Malfoy_ , written in official Ministry script. 

They reach the door of the Fifth Room and Harry shoves it open. As soon as they’re out, he glances up and down the deserted hallway and pulls Malfoy close, Disapparating. 

Malfoy’s wards dump them on the doormat again. 

“Fuck!” Harry curses under his breath. 

Malfoy shoves him off. “Honestly,” he hisses, and opens the door. 

When they’re both inside, Malfoy locks the door with both deadbolt and spell. 

“All right,” he says, whirling on Harry, “what happened?”

Harry grimaces and runs his hand through his hair. 

“Nothing. Really. We just couldn’t… Look, I thought it would be better to go through this in private.” He holds out 08297. 

Malfoy’s brow furrows as he takes the pale blue file.

“Stealing from Records, are we?” He grimaces sourly. “I hope I won’t be implicated along with you.”

Harry laughs, relieved and forgetting, for one instant, the name. “You won’t be. Cross my heart.”

Malfoy sends him a look before turning away and flicking the file open. He freezes, breath stopping in his chest and his entire body stiffening. He turns back to Harry, eyes wide and unusually disarmed. 

“Helena Malfoy,” he says wonderingly, tasting the name. “Someone is trying to get to us.”

“You know her, then?” The moment he’d seen the name _Malfoy_ written on that file, he’d known that whoever had sent the note to Harry had known exactly who would be looking into 08297 – who would be foolish enough to take a mysterious file from the Ministry and look into it without Ministry approval. Now it just remains to see what kind of trap this is. 

“ _Know_ her? She’s…” Malfoy pauses and waves the file, lips pursed. “She’s one of my cousins. I never knew her personally, she was so much older than I. But… I did see her once.” He looks back down to the file. “After she disappeared.”

Harry stills. He forces himself to stop thinking, to just listen to Malfoy for a moment. 

“She disappeared in 1981,” Malfoy says, looking down, and Harry isn’t sure if he’s reading from the file or reciting from memory. “The First War was over, or practically so. She walked out of her house to visit friends one evening and never returned.” He stops and Harry can see that the fingers he’s curled loosely around the slim file are trembling. 

Harry edges his way around a teetering pile of books and sits on the sofa. Malfoy follows his cue and sits beside him. 

“I saw her in 1987,” he says. “Almost seven years after she disappeared. She was beautiful. Her hair wasn’t like mine – it was more golden.” His hand reaches up and then stops in an abortive motion. “We were walking in Diagon Alley. Helena was going the other way, and I knew her immediately. As soon as I saw her, it was as if a shock ran through me. Her portrait was in the Manor and her name is woven into the family tree. She was like a story come to life. I tried to get Father’s attention, but she was gone. Vanished as if she’d never been. Father and Mother didn’t really believe that I’d seen her, but took me to report it anyway. No one believed me. After a while I convinced myself that I’d been mistaken.”

He looks down at the photograph attached to the file. Helena Malfoy is pretty, but not beautiful. She turns to smile up at them from beyond the lens, cheeks pink from the snow swirling around her and a Slytherin scarf twisted tightly around her neck. She laughs, twisting to look at someone behind her, and then turns back to he and Malfoy. The loop begins again, and Harry pulls his gaze away; Wizarding photographs are still far too entrancing to him, even after all these years. 

He looks to Malfoy instead. The file has badly unnerved him, shaken the perpetual confidence and ease that Malfoy projects. He wants to tell Malfoy that he didn’t imagine anything, that his memories are real, but he can’t be so trusting, not even now. He has a job to do, whether he’s been assigned the case or simply stumbled upon it. 

“ _Were_ you mistaken?” he asks. 

Malfoy’s eyes flash. “No.” He points at the photograph. “I knew this girl. She’s the woman I saw in Diagon Alley. She’s still alive, or she was then. And she’s still missing.” His voice turns soft at the last words. 

Harry isn’t sure he believes Malfoy. It’s not that he thinks Malfoy is lying, but rather that… he knows memories can be flexible. Looking at the photograph, Malfoy seems so sure of Helena Malfoy’s identity, but Harry suspects that half an hour ago he would have been hard-pressed to recall her name. 

“What do you think happened to her?” he asks.

Malfoy leans back and fingers the folder. He shakes his head after a moment. “Anything. It’s… not unknown for Malfoys to leave the family, for many reasons. We are not always easy to live with.” His gaze flicks up to Harry and then away. 

Harry stands abruptly. “Someone sent that note to me. Someone sent us - sent _us_ \- to that file. I want to know why.” He stops as Malfoy looks up at him. “And that means we have to find Helena Malfoy.”

“She’s probably dead,” Malfoy says. 

Harry nods. “Perhaps. But there’s a mystery here that I want to get to the bottom of. Something about this doesn’t feel right.” He can’t quite put his finger on it, but from the little that Malfoy has said and the glance Harry has had of the file, he can tell that there is much more to 08297 than it first appeared. 

“So we’ll find her,” Malfoy says. His face is tight, eyes wide and staring. His brand of determination is so much more vicious than Harry’s. 

Harry nods. “We’ll go back to the beginning. Talk to her family. Revisit everything. I have a feeling that it won’t take long for us to find something.”

Malfoy’s brow rises, amusement breaking through his fixation. “It’s been twenty-five years,” he says. “I think that if there was anything to be found, someone would have already found it.”

“We’ll find something. Trust me,” Harry says. “Just this once.”

That startles Malfoy into a laugh. Sunlight catches on the white of his hair, flashing. He narrows his eyes at Harry. “Trust you?” It sounds like the most unlikely proposition in the history of the world, coming from Malfoy’s lips. 

“You’ve done it before,” Harry says, not a little defensively. 

“So I have,” Malfoy says, smiling. 

//

**12:27pm**

The wind whips Malfoy’s hair into his eyes and he reaches up to pull it back. 

They’re on the last curve of the drive to the Derbyshire home of the Malfoy family – Chrysos Hall, he’s been informed – with sweat on their foreheads and robes thrown over their arms. Late summer is not a good time to be trekking down long drives simply because the edge of the anti-Apparation wards is almost a mile away. 

The fact that they’ve gotten this far at all is unusual, so far as Harry’s concerned. He had assumed that the wards around that Malfoy’s family home would be intricate and entrenched, and would require direct permission to pass through. Yet only the Apparation wards are still in place, and he and Malfoy walked straight through the rest as if they were barely there, though they’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the Derbyshire Malfoys at all today.

They’ve just spent nearly two hours tracking down Helena’s parents, the last of the Derbyshire Malfoys. It seems that, almost fifty years ago, Septimus Malfoy had bought an old Muggle home out in the picturesque countryside of the Peak District, and had proceeded to spend several years and millions of galleons having the place stripped of its Muggle heritage and redone in high Wizarding style. It is Unplottable, and to the eyes of Muggles, appears as a ruined hall. This did nothing to make the house easier to locate and Apparate to, and by now, Harry’s patience is stretching thin. He wants to get inside Chrysos Hall and find the Malfoys so that he can begin asking questions. 

“I don’t think you should talk,” Malfoy says. 

Harry looks at him incredulously. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m an Auror, and—”

“And I’m just the consultant here?” He slides a sour look towards Harry. “The Unspeakable? The only person here certified in Cursebreaking and Wardcracking? I’m the heir to the Wiltshire Malfoys, and the last wizard to have seen Helena alive. I think I’m a bit more qualified to handle this situation.”

Malfoy strides away, leaving Harry to glower after him. He’ll let Malfoy talk, but he’s certainly not going to stay silent. He braces himself and then follows Malfoy, striding up the drive. 

Chrysos Hall is enormous. It sits at the top of a steep hill, carved from pale stone and glinting gold filigree, four storeys tall and with hundreds of windows across its front, geometrically planned and precisely aligned. It is elegant and obviously quite old, and Harry is confronted once again with the Malfoy’s wealth. Not that he’d forgotten, but the particular Malfoy he chooses to spend time with does a good job of downplaying the obscene amount of gold he has access to. 

The Hall grows only larger as they approach, until its cool shadow falls over them and they’re forced to pull their robes on again. Malfoy fastens the buttons of his waistcoat and straightens, clearly readying himself for a visit with his family. As they approach the front door, Harry straightens his tie. 

“State your name,” the doorknocker gravely intones as they come to a halt. Its metal face drips down the door, chinning wagging. 

Somehow, all traces of exertion have left Malfoy, and he looks as collected and calm as if he Apparated in just feet away.

“Draco Malfoy,” Malfoy says. And then, as Harry opens his mouth, he adds, “And guest.”

Harry snaps his mouth shut, teeth grinding, and forces a smile. Patience, he reminds himself. The doorknocker’s lined face stills for a moment, then shifts to life once more. “Be welcome,” it says, and the door groans open onto darkness. 

They step inside, and the door shuts quietly behind them. The entrance hall is dim. Webs crowd the corners, and the only light comes from windows set high in the walls, which falls to the dusty floor and sends patterns across the bottom of their robes. Harry reaches into his robe for his wand, suddenly uneasy. 

“Something is wrong,” Malfoy says, and Harry nods in complete agreement. He brings out his wand and flicks it, sending a scanning spell out.

It sweeps through the room and nearby corridors before returning. “Nothing,” Harry says. “I can’t find any signs of life.”

Malfoy is already chanting his own spell under his breath. It sounds very much like Harry’s own detection spell, but with added clauses to specify something. As he tries to decipher the Latin, Malfoy finishes the spells with a sweep of his wand and Harry feels the magic sweep over him and away, through the myriad rooms of the house. 

“Is that your spell?” he asks, as they wait for the results. 

Malfoy nods. “I specified that it should search for members of my bloodline. It should tell me if there are any other Malfoys here. But it won’t…” He grimaces and shrugs. “There are certain kinks I haven’t been able to work out yet. I haven’t exactly tested this one extensively.”

The spell returns to Malfoy with a flash at the top of his wand, and he looks down at it sharply. “They’re here,” he says. 

“Good,” Harry says, and before Malfoy can delay by running any more diagnostics, he walks towards the wide staircase in the centre of the cavernous entrance hall. 

He pauses and turns on his heel. “Up?” he asks, tilting his head toward the stairs. 

Back stiff, Malfoy walks over. “The bedrooms will be up there. I’m sure my family won’t be thrilled with the fact that you’re now intruding on their private spaces.”

Harry shrugs. “They should have come down to greet us, then.”

He starts upwards, the sound of his and Malfoy’s heels on the stairs is hollow. 

The house is still and quiet. The wood of the staircase groans softly under his weight, and the only other sounds that Harry can make out are the rasp of Malfoy’s robes shifting and the infrasonic hum of magic. 

At the top of the staircase, they split up, Malfoy heading down the hall to the left and Harry to the right. Wand out, Harry checks each room, finding a library with books left open on the desk, a sitting room with a dusty teacup and saucer still sitting out, a study that is immaculately clean except for the thick layer of dust over everything, and a bedroom that appears to have been unused for years. The sound of his steps is eerily muffled as he moves through each one. 

Halfway down the long hall, the wall changes from a darkly-patterned and faded wallpaper to a thick, draped tapestry. Harry slows to a halt and uses his wand to lift a corner of the heavy fabric. It takes him a moment to realize why it seems so familiar. 

It’s a Malfoy family tapestry. Generations of bloodlines are laid out in black and silver embroidery on a panelled green, names writ in small cramped script and connected by a thick grid of lines. This family tree must go back _thousands_ of years. 

Harry drops to a crouch, squinting as he looks for a name he recognizes. Many are dark and grayed, the witches and wizards they represented long dead. Down the bottom, some shine, glimmering with a faint light. 

There. Draco Malfoy, Lucius and Narcissa; written in the very middle of the tapestry. Off to the side is the name Helena Malfoy, shining and vibrant. Harry reaches out to touch the tapestry, disarmed by the sight. 

A flame flares up in front of his face and Harry jumps up, wand snapping up to cast a spell. 

But the floating tongue of fire does nothing besides hover, flickering and dancing. Then it gutters and flares up again, and a voice issues from it. 

“Potter,” Malfoy says through the communication spell, “come quickly. I’ve found them.” The spell has flattened his voice and turned it hollow, but Harry can still hear the concern in it. 

He pulls back from the spell as it fades to a wisp and vanishes. He turns and heads down the hall towards Malfoy, steps quickened. After a moment, Malfoy steps out of a darkened doorway and beckons. Harry begins to run. 

“What is it?” he asks, breaths coming harsh in his throat as he stops.

Malfoy scowls. “You’ll see.” He points into the open door of the room he’s just stepped out of with the glowing tip of his wand. “I think we’re a bit late for questions.”

Harry moves inside with his wand out. It appears to be a sitting room, very much like one down the hall, except that this one has a fireplace with ashes in it. A teacup lies on the wooden floor, shattered, and its saucer sits nearby. In the two chairs flanking the fireplace sit two bodies, obviously many years dead. They have rotted to mere bones and skin, though the robes that they once wore remain fairly intact. Yellow hair curls over the collar of one body, and a few strands of shorter grey hair cling to the rotted scalp of the other. 

A man and a woman. “Is it Helena?” Harry asks. 

Malfoy slides around him and leans close. 

“No,” he says. “Do you see their rings?”

Harry peers at the bony hands, draped over the arms of their chairs. Each body has a heavy ring on its left hand, matching in design and engraving. 

“Malfoy signet rings,” he says. “Given only through marriage. Helena wasn’t married. These must be her parents.” He pauses. “Septimus and Aurelia Malfoy.”

Harry frowns. “Her parents aren’t supposed to be dead,” he says. “The file lists them as alive.”

He flicks his wand, allowing his Lumos to die, and runs a few diagnostic spells. They bring back no answers, showing only that the Malfoys died a natural death. Yet this looks anything but. How could a prominent Wizarding couple vanish and be left to rot in their own home with no one noticing?

“Natural causes,” he says. “But that seems unlikely.”

“Extremely so,” Malfoy says, and lifts his own wand. He scowls for a long moment. “I might be able to find out more.”

He begins to speak an incantation, drawing out his words so that the Latin blurs together, intonation low and steady. Harry recognizes the sound of an invented spell and draws back slightly, not wanting to interfere in the least in whatever magic Malfoy is crafting. 

As the spell continues, the bodies twitch. A soft palette of colour flares under the skin of their cheeks, then blossoms, spreading with a startling swiftness down their necks and under their clothes. Their flesh balloons outward, swelling with life, and their chests rise. They sit still for a moment as Harry stares, and Malfoy continues his magic. 

Then they move, rising slowly from their seats. As they stand, their expressions shift from blank to terrified, muscles tightening and twitching with the abject fear they are experiencing. 

“What have you—” Harry begins. Behind the risen figures he can see the bodies, still sitting lifeless in their armchairs, unchanged. The magic he sees now is just an illusion. 

Septimus and Aurelia Malfoy reach up, clawing with artificially lifelike fingers at something invisible above them. Septimus manages to pull away for a second, pushing back whatever has him in its grasp and stares desperately past Harry, at the doorway. His mouth opens and closes and it looks like he’s shouting something. 

Then he is bent backwards like his wife, his mouth falls open, and the blankness comes over him once more. 

Malfoy falls silent, ending the spell, and the illusory figures go dim, the life leaching from them until they are nothing more than shadows on the intricately patterned carpet, and then gone altogether. The skeletons in the chairs remain.

Harry blinks into the darkness. With trembling fingers, he lights his wand.

“What was that?” he asks. His voice is a rasp and his heart is pounding, though it’s only been a moment since Malfoy began his spell. 

He looks over to see that Malfoy’s shoulders have slumped, and his pointed features are gone. He looks up, his eyes utterly expressionless for a moment. 

“A spell of seeing, in a way,” he says. He tucks his wand away in his sleeves. “It only works with blood relatives. We’ve been working on it in the Department of Mysteries, but it isn’t released for general use yet…” 

Harry can see why. The spell reminds him powerfully of the Resurrection Stone, in a way that curdles his stomach and makes him want to flee from the power that created that vision. He forces himself to move forward. He reaches out, then stops, hand hovering above Malfoy’s bent shoulders.

“I conjured their last moments,” Malfoy finishes. “I couldn’t show what killed them, but now we know for sure that they were murdered.”

_Not quite_. Harry’s lips twist unpleasantly. There is only one Magical Creature he can think of that grasps its victims so powerfully and which seeks only a kiss. Unfortunately, it causes nothing so painless as death. 

His hand lands on Malfoy’s shoulder, and he twitches violently before leaning hesitantly into Harry’s grip. 

“Let’s find the kitchen,” Harry says. “I think we both need some tea.”

//

**1:17pm**

The kitchens are on the ground floor, their windows shuttered and dust gathered in the sink. Harry steps in, holding the glowing tip of his wand high and trying not to let the silence of the house get to him. 

“Kettle, kettle,” he mutters under his breath as he searches. He could summon one, of course, but at the moment he’d like to avoid magic. 

Halfway through the room he hears a scratching noise behind him that doesn’t sound at all like Malfoy’s footsteps. He whirls, shifting into a half crouch and bringing his wand in front of him. Malfoy has already done the same, expression pale and lips thin. Harry moves forward, flicking the Lumos away from his wand tip so that it rises to hover above them, casting light over the entire room. 

There is one shadow in the corner that seems out of place. 

“Hello?” Harry calls quietly, acting on a small suspicion. The small shadow twitches and shivers, large ears trembling. “I’m here to help the Master and Mistress. Will you come out?” He holds his breath, waiting silently for an answer. 

After a long, tense moment, a stooped house elf slides out from between the wall and counter. Malfoy lets out a nearly audible sigh and straightens.

“Masters wishes to help the Family?” the elf asks in a creaking voice. 

“Yes,” Malfoy says smoothly, in his most falsely composed tone. He straightens and lifts his chin. “We must know what happened to the Master and Mistress Malfoy.”

“We’re Aurors,” Harry says, offering the elf a small smile. “We are here to help.” He doesn’t want the creature scared off by Malfoy’s imperial tone; it looks traumatized enough as it is. 

The elf looks up and glances back and forth between them, eyes enormous and unblinking. “The Aurors came once, looking for the young Mistress. Now they come for the Masters, too.” Tears well up in its eyes and Harry fairly cringes with guilt. He always feels terrible when he makes a house elf cry. 

Malfoy sneers. “Stop crying,” he snaps. “Tell us what you know.”

Harry glares and straightens, opening his mouth to chastise Malfoy for his callousness, when the elf nods. It straightens, blinking tears from its eyes, and bows shakily. “Of course, Master Malfoy,” it says, sniffling. “Master and Mistress Malfoy are not dead. Shandy saw it. The dark ones came and made everything cold. The young Mistress ran away, but the Master and Mistress became so quiet. They didn’t ask Shandy to do anything, and Shandy tried to make them eat, but they would not! The Master and Mistress are not dead, but they are not alive!” The elf burrows its face in its hands, ears quivering. 

Harry stares. Shandy’s words have only confirmed his suspicions as to the murder of Septimus and Aurelia Malfoy. But it is not just that. Shandy said that ‘the young Mistress’ had been there when her parents died. And that she’d fled.

“Shandy, listen to me.” He goes down to his knees on the dusty tiled floor. 

Shandy looks up, eyes shining with unshed tears. 

“You said that Helena Malfoy was here when your Master and Mistress… grew sick,” he continues. “She was supposed to have disappeared.”

Shandy shakes his head. “The young Mistress has always been here,” he says. “The young Mistress has not disappeared anywhere.”

“Do you know where she is?” He feels the tension vibrating off Malfoy, beside him. “Right now?” He thinks of the note, sent by parties unknown and imbued with subtle and intricate spells. “She may be in danger,” he adds.

Shandy nods. “Shandy knows where the young Mistress lives. Shandy will help protect the young Mistress,” he says, and smiles tremulously.

Harry smiles back. “Thank you, Shandy,” he says. “That’s just what we need to know.”

The elf hesitates, then tugs at his ears. “Shandy does not want to say,” he says, suddenly hesitant. 

“Shandy,” Malfoy snaps in a tone that he must have learn from his father. “Tell us now.”

The elf shakes, then gives in. “The young Mistress Helena lives in Muggle London,” he says. “You must not punish Shandy for knowing.”

His tone is leaning towards hysteria, so Harry reassures him, “Of course not. But what part of Muggle London?”

Shandy looks up from behind long lashes. “The part called the Chell Sea,” he whispers. 

//

**4:43pm**

“Chelsea,” Harry sighs. “I can’t say I’m surprised.” He shoves his hands in his trouser pockets and cranes his neck back to better gaze at the sophisticated faces of the buildings lining Paultons Square. This has to be one of the wealthiest, snobbiest, and well-kept areas of London. Perfect for a Malfoy.

White steps lead up to black doorways, the brick of the upper levels of the townhouses turned a dark earthy brown by the shade from the trees in the park across the street. The shadows are long under the late afternoon sun. 

Malfoy fidgets one last time with the suit jacket he’s conjured for himself and steps forward, touching the tips of his shoes to the first step at No. 28 Paultons Square. He touches his collar, pulling it up close to his immaculately knotted tie, then lets it fall once more. His cheeks are flushed pink from the heat, and he’s scowling. He lifts his wand and casts a discreet detection spell. Harry shifts over to add his own. 

Harry sighs. “Nothing. Not a single drop of magic."

Malfoy frowns down at his wand. “Can’t be right,” he mutters.

“It’s what the spells say,” Harry says easily, in a markedly better mood because he refused to conjure a replacement for his robes and has been walking around in the light cotton of his shirt for the past fifteen minutes. He ascends the four steps to the front door and turns, taller than Malfoy at last.

“Do you have a strange feeling about this case?” he asks. 

“I have a strange feeling about everything,” Malfoy snaps, looking up at him. “Why?”

Harry shakes his head, glancing up and down the street. “I received a note this morning that pointed us towards Helena’s case file. I just happen to be working with you, the last person to see her alive. When we go to question Helena’s parents, we find them dead; murdered. And their house elf seems to think that Helena never disappeared in the first place. This is beyond strange,” he says. “It’s….”

“Contrived,” Malfoy finishes for him. “And poorly so.”

Harry nods. “Exactly.”

Silence falls between them for another few moments. 

A black cab turns down the street, and Harry watches it. It slows to a halt, pulling over almost directly in front of them. A slim woman steps out and turns back to pay the cabbie. Her hair is a soft gold, curled and cut to shoulder length. She turns and sees them, the loose skirt of her white dress shifting around her, white heels clicking on the pavement. 

She walks forward and places a hand on the railing that leads to her front door. The gaze she narrows is hard and unwelcome, as if she already knows why they’re here.

“Helena Malfoy?” Harry asks, though it isn’t really a question. 

She stares at him. “Who are you?” Her tone is flat, as if she doesn’t care one way or the other. Nonetheless, the dead expression in her eyes sends a chill through Harry. 

He forces a smile. “Harry Potter.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his warrant card. “Auror. Can we talk?”

“What do you want?” she asks.

Malfoy moves forward. “We want to help,” he says. 

“We’ve been assigned to your case,” Harry adds. “We want to know why the Ministry of Magic lists you as disappeared. We just need to clear that up.”

Her stance relaxes slightly. “The Ministry has assigned _Harry Potter_ to clean up my case?”

Harry grins at her. “It really is very important.”

She looks to Malfoy and pauses. “Come in, then,” she says, and her face relaxes like the flipping of a switch. Harry blinks at the change. “I don’t have too much time before I have to go out again, but I’ll see what I can do to help you along.”

She sweeps up the stairs past Harry, slides her keys into the door, and pushes it open to reveal a wide hall with white floors. The walls are covered with framed paintings.

“Come in,” she says, glancing back at them, and walks inside. 

Harry sends Malfoy a glance before following. 

“Would you like some tea?” she asks, closing the door behind them. 

“No thank you, Ms Malfoy,” Malfoy says. “We’ve just had some.”

They have, in fact. Once Shandy had calmed down, he had only been too glad to make Harry and Malfoy a pot of strong tea and tell them all about the lovely young Mistress who’d moved to Muggle London – wasn’t it a _shame_ \- but who was kind and brought pride to the Malfoy name all the same.

“Please, call me Helena,” she says. “I haven’t used Malfoy in years. Though, I believe that you…” She looks to Malfoy.

He nods. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Draco Malfoy. Unspeakable.”

Her lips shape an O. “Of the Wiltshire Malfoys!” she exclaims. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” She stops and turns, holding out a hand to shake. 

After the barest hesitation, Malfoy shakes it. “No,” he says. “We haven’t.”

“It’s always lovely to meet family after all these years,” she says, smiling happily. Harry notices that her smile still fails to reach her eyes. “How did you find me?”

Helena steps into a sitting room and walks over to a low, white couch. She settles onto the sofa with her ankles crossed; the hem of her white dress rises up her thigh as she leans forward. A wide painting hangs above the sofa in an ornate golden frame, showing four large figures arranged in a landscape, coaxed from brooding greens and shadows. The painting is non-magical and still, and obviously quite old. Each figure has his or her gaze turned away from the viewer. 1

Helena is waiting for their answer.

“Is that a Titian?” Malfoy asks instead, looking up at the painting. 

She twists to look. “Yes, or a Giorgione.” She turns back with a wicked smile. “No one is quite sure.”

“That must have cost quite a lot,” Malfoy says, almost asking a question, his gaze steady on her. 

“I’m a collector,” Helena says lightly. “It’s my profession.” She leans back. “I collect things – mostly art, but also other interesting trinkets that come my way.”

“Are you interested in any particular period?” Malfoy asks. Harry is beginning to feel very out of touch with the conversation. 

“No,” she says. “I gather all kinds of art for my collection. But I suppose that there is always that one elusive piece that I can’t seem to get my hands on.” She pauses, a faint smile touching her lips. “Please, sit down. You never did say why you’re here.”

“We were assigned to your case,” Harry says, settling into a white, minimally-styled chair that matches the sofa. Malfoy sits in the matching chair nearby with conspicuous upper class grace and practice. “Nothing more.” He smiles at Helena and feels Malfoy watching him. They haven’t agreed on this particular story, but Harry is confident that he can pull it off. Helena doesn’t know much about the inner workings of the Ministry, he’s sure. 

She nods. “So you said. But I’m not exactly the easiest person to locate.” Her tone is edged. 

“It did take us a while,” Malfoy says with an easy smile, lying through his teeth without an instant’s pause for thought. Harry is grateful for that; he’s never been the best liar, even when it’s essential. 

Seeing that Helena is getting ready to ask another question, Harry forges ahead. “Your file states that you disappeared on 8 November 1981. Yet when we called at Chrysos Hall to speak with your parents, we were assured that you’d never disappeared. Why the discrepancy?”

She blinks, fingers folding together carefully in her lap. “Did you call at home?” she asks. “I haven’t spoken to my parents in years.”

Harry nods. “Did you run away from home in 1981?”

“Oh, no,” she says, eyes wide and mocking. “That disappearance nonsense was all a misunderstanding. I went overseas for school, and someone filed a false report that never quite went away.” 

“Someone?” Harry pauses. “I believe it was your parents who filed the missing persons report. Why would they do that if you’d simply gone away to school?” _And besides,_ he thinks silently, _where would she have gone?_ The only overseas options Harry can think of are Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, or Salem. Yet he’s worked with witches and wizards who’ve spent time over seas in the past; Helena lacks the burr in her enunciation, the subtle shifting of speech that signifies time spent in a foreign land. She’s too precisely English.

Helena watches him with her deadened gaze for a long moment before blinking. Her eyes shift to look at Malfoy, and Harry nearly sighs as her regard is lifted from him. He has the feeling that Helena couldn’t care less about them or the questions that they’re asking, that the majority of her thoughts are concerned with something else entirely. He just wishes that he could figure out what that is. 

“When I was young,” Helena says, voice rough as it shatters the silence, “my mother was often unstable. She would have fits, screaming until the whole house shook with the sound. She…” Here she pauses and looks back to Harry. “After I left for school, she reported me as missing. I don’t know why. I’d been going to Hogwarts for years, so why would she become convinced that I’d been taken from home, when I’d simply left for school?”

“Could you remind me,” Harry asks, acting on a hunch, “of the year you were born?”

Nonplussed, Helena blinks at him. “1963,” she bites out. 

Malfoy does the math more quickly than Harry. “So you were 18 when you were reported missing. You would have already graduated Hogwarts. Why were you leaving for school?” 

Harry is glad to see that Malfoy has picked up on the strangeness surrounding Helena Malfoy as well. 

“What does that matter?” Helena snaps. “You came to ask about my disappearance. I’ve explained that. All of it. I don’t know why you’re still asking questions.” She stands, obviously wanting them out. 

Harry and Malfoy exchange a quick glance. 

“Yes,” Malfoy says. “Thank you. You’re right of course. What you’ve told us should clear up the file.” He stands and Harry follows suit. 

Something is wrong here. Helena’s story is implausible and her demeanour is twisted. Harry can’t quite name what’s wrong here, but he’s willing to bet that it’s illegal. And likely the real reason that he and Malfoy were sent to investigate Case No. 08297. He won’t just let that go. 

“Thank you for your time,” Harry says, smiling. The one Helena offers in return is strained, and her gaze seethes with distaste.

They head for the door and as Malfoy steps into the hall, Harry pauses. He turns back. 

“Just one more thing, Helena.” He gives a breath of silence. “If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” she says, her grimace brief. 

“Where were you on the night of your parents’ murder?”

Harry can tell he’s caught her off guard by the way she goes still, then slides her gaze up to meet his, smooth as a snake and just as warm. 

“I only ask because, when we went to Chrysos Hall, we found the bodies of your parents in one of the upstairs sitting rooms. They were in a terrible condition. You see…” Here he pauses and turns to face Helena fully. “No one knew they were dead.”

“Is that so?” She lifts her chin. “It’s a shame, really. But as I told you, I haven’t been back to the Hall in years.”

Malfoy steps up behind Harry, taking his cue to keep pressuring Helena until they can uncover the truth. “There was someone who saw you,” he says. “A house elf by the name of Shandy. He wanted to help you so badly, he told us everything we wanted to know.”

Helena is pale, but composed. It’s admirable, in the face of the fact that he and Malfoy are quickly backing her into a corner. 

“I still don’t understand,” Harry says, “how you could watch your parents die and do nothing. But I do know why you never told anyone that they’d died.” Helena is tightening, her muscles tensing farther and farther. The coldness in her gaze has gone as icy as the tip of Antarctica, and Harry knows that with one last push, she’ll be over the edge. “If you told anyone how you ran away…”

She shifts forward, drawing her hand back for a slap, snarl plastered on her face. Harry spreads his arms to let her come and Malfoy moves forward, pressing close to Harry and shoving the tip of his wand under Helena’s chin as she lunges. She freezes, shuddering to a halt, trembling with the urge to hit Harry. 

They stand still as statues for a moment. “I could have you arrested for that,” Harry says quietly. 

Helena’s hand falls to her side. “And take me to your magical prison, I would think. Lock me away where you’ll never have to see me again.” There is something in her tone as she refers to Azkaban that sits badly with him. As if a _magical_ prison is different from the norm. 

As if magic is a foreign entity to Helena Malfoy.

Malfoy shifts, and from the corner of his eye, Harry can see that he’s frowning. 

“’Magical prison’?” Malfoy asks. “Why do you call it that?” 

Her gaze narrows and she shifts away from the tip of his wand. “What do you care?” she sneers. 

“Answer the question,” Harry says. “And this one, too: why have you exiled yourself here, to Muggle London? Why haven’t you returned home?” 

With a toss of her head, Helena laughs harshly and steps back, spreading her empty hands. She suddenly seems at ease. “Because I could not go _home_ ,” she says with a twisted smile. “If I still had my magic, I would have set wards on this house so that you would never find me. I would rip you to shreds with my curses, and you would enjoy every moment of it.” She glances at Malfoy and her eyes widen. “Don’t be sad, cousin. I don’t hate you any more than the rest of this goddamned family.”

Malfoy has gone so pale he seems white. 

This is the wrongness, the strange feeling at the centre of this case. This is why nothing seemed to fit at first, why Helena Malfoy had vanished so completely all those years ago. She has lost her magic. 

“How?” Harry asks. 

Helena’s brows rise and she laughs. “You want to know the details? The _intimate_ moments? How I went out to a Muggle club and ended up in a hotel room with no magic? I’ve had to _live_ with Muggles. You stand there, dripping with magic and fame, and you presume to judge why I ran away? Why I preferred to hide from the monsters that killed my parents rather than face them, weak and pathetic without my magic? You make me sick.”

The idea of Helena leaving her parents to die slowly, of thrist and lack of a soul within the grand Manor where they had raised her, makes Harry sick. Glancing the Malfoy’s face, it appears he feels the same. How could she have done that?

“If what you say is true,” Malfoy says, voice weak, “then you didn’t just run away once, but twice: the first time when you let your parents die, and the second when you left them to rot.”

“I could do nothing!” she screams, hands clenching into fists. “I couldn’t save myself, and I couldn’t save my parents! Do you think I didn’t _try_?” Her eye flash and she moves towards Malfoy. Still pressed close together, Harry feels Malfoy’s breath quicken. “Every day, for twenty-five years, I’ve tried to get my magic back. So that I could live like a normal person. So that I could save my parents. I’ve _killed_ for that. And I still can’t lift so much as a teacup. Do you think I _wanted_ to live like a fucking Muggle?” 

“Who did you kill?” Malfoy asks, voice hoarse. 

The anger drains from her quickly, rushing away like water down a drain. Helena smiles with a mixture of satisfaction and nostalgia. “The Muggle boy who took my magic, of course. I trusted him, all those years ago. I even fucked him. And he took my magic.” She pauses, drawing herself up. “So I left him to rot in that hotel room.”

Well. There it is. Harry lets his wand, which he’s been hiding in his sleeve, slip into view and raises it.

“Helena Malfoy,” Harry says, trying for a flat professionalism that is difficult in the face of what this woman has just admitted to doing. 

The gaze she focuses on his is flat and dead. “Yes, Mr. Potter?” Her tone sends chills down his spine. 

“You are under arrest for murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you may later rely on before the Wizengamot. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” He grasps her arm and turns her. “ _Incarcerous_ ,” he casts, and ropes spring from his wand to wind themselves around her wrists, dragging them together. 

Helena turns to look at him. Her gaze is satisfied, and for a moment, her bound hands clasp Harry’s. “Thank you,” she whispers.

Harry pulls away and sends Malfoy a glance, then with a swift turn Apparates himself and Helena away. 

//

**9:28pm**

The lift ride up from Level Two is quiet, with just him and Malfoy in the cage. 

“It isn’t possible,” Malfoy says suddenly, “to lose your magic. It’s innate; it can’t be taken from any of us.”

“So why did Helena think she’d lost hers?” Harry asks. “She seems certain, and she didn’t once try to use magic against us.”

Malfoy shakes his head. “Trauma? A curse? Magic can’t be taken, but it can be suppressed for a time. Though anything that would hold back her magic for such a long time would have to be extremely powerful.” He grimaces. “She’d have to be more thoroughly examined to determine the cause. But the Auror Department has her now, so that is unlikely.”

Harry sighs. He knows that Malfoy would have liked to have kept Helena within Unspeakable jurisdiction, to better understand her. But it’s probably for the best that she’s kept far away, Harry thinks. He’s afraid that she’ll end up damaging Malfoy far more than either of them would expect. 

“At least she’ll go to trial,” he says. “The Ministry will have to contact the Met about the Muggle she killed, but she’ll be tried by the Wizengamot.”

“Then she’ll get off,” Malfoy says. His tone is somewhere between relieved and disturbed. 

“She _confessed_ to us,” Harry says. 

Malfoy glances up at him. “Remember my father? If your family has money, the Wizengamot is prone to leniency,” he says. “And Helena has money. I suspect she was getting it from her parents’ estate, but I can’t be sure. You saw the townhouse she was living in, the art she had on her walls. She was living well.”

Harry grimaces. “You’re right.” The lift slows to a stop and the doors slide open with a clang. Harry moves to get out, then is nearly bowled over by someone very tall rushing into the elevator.

“Harry!” Ron exclaims. “Did you hear? We closed the kidnapping!” His face is flushed and his hair messier than Harry’s seen it in years. Malfoy edges away from him on the other side of the lift. 

Harry gapes, dismayed. _Already?_

“We found Wilfing dead,” Ron says, sighing and leaning against the lift door. It wheezes, attempting to close, but he ignores it. “Hanged himself. Savage is calling it suicide.” Ron’s tone is doubtful.

Harry blinks, trying to recall the details of a case he’s never worked. “Well, if he hanged himself…”

Malfoy, edging out carefully around Ron, snorts. “What kind of wizard hangs himself?” he asks sharply. “I’d take a well-brewed poison any day.”

Ron startles as if just seeing him and steps back. “Exactly!” he says.

Malfoy ignores him and looks at Harry. “Keep me up to date,” he says. “I’ll be around.” He turns on his heels and leaves, heading for the Floo. 

If only his last words hadn’t seemed so sinister. 

Ron steps fully into the lift and Harry takes the opportunity to slide out. He’s exhausted and as much as he’d love to hear about Ron’s case, he needs sleep more at the moment. 

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Ron,” he says. 

“Mark my words!” Ron says, wild around the eyes. “It was murder.” The lift doors slide shut and, with a sigh, he’s carried away. 

Harry sends a tired smile after him. He turns towards the Floo and shoves his hands into his pockets. 

What a day. Hopefully he can put this all behind him for the night, but it seems more likely that he’ll be dreaming about Helena Malfoy – sharp, dark, and deadly dreams. He tries wistfully to think of the nice soft bed waiting for him instead. 

In his pocket, Harry’s fingers brush against a folded parchment. 

_Case No. 08297  
The Fifth Room_

Helena Malfoy.

A chill begins to build within him, settling in around his stomach. He doesn’t know who sent the note, or why. Helena’s case, despite the appearance of being solved, still sits oddly with him. Something isn’t finished here. 

There is still a knot to unravel. And Harry isn’t sure he’ll be able to solve this one on his own.

 

 

 

 

 

 

1 [Pastoral Concert](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pastoral_Concert) by Titian/Giorgione

 

 

 

_TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK..._


	3. Episode #3: A Murder Up North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young girl is found dead, the granddaughter of a former Minister for Magic. The wizarding world is in shock, but Dawlish has a new cold case for Harry: He is ordered to investigate another murder from the war. Both the victim and the accused were Death Eaters. Three of them are still doing time in Azkaban.

_11 August, 2006 – a Thursday_

The North Sea crashed against the rocks with never-ceasing strength. Auror Williamson stood at the window and stared down at the turbulent waters. The clouds hung low and the water-splashed cliffs seemed devoid of life. Not a gull hovered near the stony hole from where all of Azkaban's waste was dumped into the sea. Williamson let out a quiet sigh. No surprise, really, that even a hardened criminal like Mulciber was begging to get off the Rock.

"... the casting of an Imperius on Unspeakable Broderick Bode... the wilful murder of Fabian and Gideon Prewett... aiding and abetting the massacre of Marlene McKinnon, her brother, her sister-in-law, and their two children..." The scribe was a small man. His Adam's apple kept bobbing whenever he looked up from the list of crimes and waited for Mulciber to grunt his reply.

Release interviews at Azkaban could drag on forever, especially when the prisoner had won a certain notoriety and was up for early release because of health reasons. But they were already wrapping up the First War. Williamson had been a young man during the first of the wizarding wars, freshly recruited into the DMLE back then. And yet he still he remembered the dead bodies of the McKinnons lined up in the morgue. The public had never heard the details of the killings, the way the children were tortured to extract intelligence from their parents and aunt. Williamson was Muggle-born, he'd grown up in Newham before everything was knocked down and gentrified. He'd seen his share of violence and death, before and after entering the Aurors. But back then, on that cold morning twenty-five years ago, he'd lost his breakfast in the loo at the sight of what Unforgivables could do to the body of a seven-year-old boy.

"...unlawful breaking and entering of the Ministry of Magic in the night of June 17, 1996... Imperiusing a security guard... aiding and abetting the Death Eaters Tom Riddle and Augustus Rockwood in dismantling the security wards to the Department of Mysteries... attacking with intent to kill a group of underage students from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry... accessory to the murder of Sirius Black... destruction of –" 

"Yes, damn it, yes." With a harsh rattle of his chains Mulciber put both his hands on the table. 

The scribe startled back, his chair scraping over the bare floor. 

"Just let me sign the bloody parchment," Mulciber said. "We've gone through all of this a hundred times at my trials."

The scribe looked at his superior first, Reeves from the parole board, who sat in the corner with his head against the wall, all but asleep with open eyes. He shrugged and pointed with his chin towards Williamson.

"Continue with the reading," Williamson said. "Mulciber, hands off the table. And shut the fuck up and only answer when asked. It's not our fault this scroll goes on and on like a bloody loo roll."

Mulciber withdrew his arms and placed them into his lap like before. He had been a big man once. Now he was still tall but without the bulk of muscles and fat he looked almost frail. Cancer of the liver. The healers had confirmed it was terminal. He had six months to live, perhaps a year. In what little light came through the dirty windows, his skin looked jaundiced, the sickly colour of death.

Williamson sympathised with the man, he did. The temperature in the damp room had be close to freezing. Over on the mainland, it was summer. The scroll in front of the scribe still went on for several feet. But there was no way around the reading of the crimes. Standard procedure. A last stern reminder of the power of the Wizengamot; a last chance for MLE to gather information from the inmate. The scribe was reading off the scroll again, faster now, a bit breathless. He did not look at Mulciber when he stopped for him to affirm his crimes.

"No."

The quill dripped ink onto the scroll, and the scribe quickly placed it on the stand. "Er, beg your pardon?" 

"I said, no. I did all those things you've read. But not this one. I've never laid my hands on the Russian."

In his corner, Reeves sat up. Williamson tried to recall what the scribe had just read – _accessory to the murder of Sirius Black, destruction of the Brockdale bridge, abduction, torture and killing of Octavius Pepper, first-degree murder of Igor Karkaroff..._

Karkaroff. The Russian. The turn-coat. Williamson had been a member of the investigation team back then. He had hated it, they all had hated it. Back then he could have not cared less about who killed this piece of Death Eater scum. It had been a clear-cut murder investigation – motives, missing alibis, evidence from the crime scene had all been established. As much as he remembered, it had been the only clear-cut case in a whole year of twisted, violent crimes and the Auror Department a mess what with Head Auror Bones dead and Thickeness a puppet in the hands of You-Know-Who.

"What do you mean?" Williamson stepped away from the window and towards the table. "We had a witness who saw you at the scene of the crime. We had proof, irrefutable proof, that Dolohov cast the Morsmordre over the shack where the body was found. You and your cronies killed him."

Mulciber's jaw tensed, he squared his shoulders. "We were up north in that village, and Antonin left the Dark Mark above that shack. But we did not kill him." He chuckled dryly. "I would have loved to get my hands on him, after he'd grassed us up. I volunteered for that job." 

"But you were there, up in..." Williamson searched his mind for the name of the place where the dead body of Igor Karkaroff had been discovered, more than ten years ago. A small village in the North Yorkshire Moors, with only Muggles living there. He remembered railroad tracks and sheep and houses built with roughly-cut stones from the area. "In Goathland," he said. 

"Oh, we were up there, Portkeyed right in front of the shack." Mulciber leaned back, his eyes on the scroll trailing to the floor. "But we never laid hands on the Russian. Someone had been there before us. Choked the life right out of him." He looked up, right into Williamson's face. His eyes were clear and bright, a sharp contrast to his sallow skin and his hands that had not stopped trembling since he'd entered the room. "We left, Auror. Antonin cast the Morsmordre, on _His_ orders. We never talked about it later because the Russian was dead and that's all we wanted. We were sent up north to give him what he deserved. And he got it. But not from us. If it says on this bloody scroll I strangled Karkaroff, then your records are wrong." 

The scribe looked from Williamson to Reeves and back. His knuckles around the quill were white. Williamson sat down on the one remaining chair at the table, moving slight closer to the side of the scribe who sighed with audible relief.

You needn't be a coward to be afraid of this dying man who had a reputation for utter ruthlessness. Mulciber was intelligent, dangerously so. A specialist for the Imperius Curse, Karkaroff had said when he'd given the testimony that got him out of Azkaban. Come to think of, it had probably been Mulciber who'd held Head Auror Thickeness under Imperius all those months until the Ministry was officially taken over by You-Know-Who. 

Mulciber would lie expertly if he needed to come up with a clever design to get him off the Rock. But he _was_ leaving Azkaban. This interview was nothing but a formality. Mulciber was dying, killed by an enemy he could not fight – his own body, his own _pure-blood_ cells. There was no reason for him to lie. 

The Karkaroff murder had to be reopened. Williamson checked the scroll – Dolohov, Nott, Rosier. They had been part of the "job" up in the village of Goathland. Rosier was dead, but Nott and Dolohov were still in prison. Both high-ranking Death Eaters, both convicted of many crimes. It wouldn't make much difference to either of them whether they were acquitted of the Karkaroff murder or not. 

Williamson felt Reeves watching him expectantly. There was no need to act on Mulciber's words. After the interview, the scroll went back into the depths of the Record Rooms. Mulciber's face was unmoving, eyes trained on an invisible spot on the wall behind Williamson, hands in lap as told. 

Someone had got away with murder. The murder of an ex-Death-Eater, Headmaster of a school known for its bigotry. Williamson felt a brilliant idea coming on. Oh, Dawlish would be so pleased. What with the disappearance of the Squib girl and the _Prophet_ all over the Aurors, this was exactly the headlines they needed. They'd reopen the Karkaroff case. New evidence from a release interview. Standard procedure. Williamson could not suppress a smile. The scribe gave him an odd look. But it was too good to be true. A reopened dust case from over ten years ago – it was perfect for Potter's Cold Case Division.

*

_14 August, 2006 – a Sunday_

Benjy was always eager for sex after a Quidditch victory. Especially if he had caught the Snitch that decided the game. But if it was a victory against the Wigtown Wanderers, United's archenemy since the days when the Wanderers all bore the same name, Benjy's randiness equalled that of a werewolf in heat.

Saturday's match had been a friendly game, off season, in the middle of August. But it had been the Wigtown Wanderers who'd left the pitch beaten, and the Golden Snitch had fluttered within Benjy's tightly closed fist.

The morning after, Benjy still had not come down from his sexual high, despite a night of multiple orgasms and steaming sex in the bath. He had come on to Draco after breakfast, no matter that they both were already dressed for the day: Draco in his Sunday robes for brunch at the Manor, and Benjy in the ripped Muggle jeans that Draco could never resist.

Now his robes were lying in a pile on the Persian rug and Benjy was lying prone in one of the armchairs in Draco's living room. He was moaning into the back rest, one hand splayed upon the leather-bound tome of _Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration_ , the other below him, wanking furiously. Draco still wore his white shirt and tie; he'd just opened the lacings of his black twill trousers. There was something quite arousing about the sight of Benjy's pert arse, the faded blue jeans wrapped around his muscled thighs and Draco's cock sliding up and down the freshly showered crack. He was not fully hard yet but getting closer, what with Benjy's gasping loudly whenever Draco shoved him deeper into the velvet upholstery. 

Draco reached around Benjy's waist and wrapped his hand around Benjy's fist that gripped his cock. 

"Don't come yet, you little slut," he whispered in Benjy's ear, just the right amount of calculated roughness in his voice. He felt the effect on Benjy at once, an involuntary spasm that rippled through his body and made his arse cheeks tremble. Draco tightened his fist around Benjy's hand, making him stop all movement. Hot precome dribbled on Draco's thumb and Benjy was shaking with the effort to not thrust into Draco's fist. Blood and need gathered in Draco's cock; a delicious heat coiled in his groin. He spared half a thought for lube but when Benjy was like this, needy and gagging for it, he could take a little pain. Draco moved backwards, to line up his cock and –

_Whoosh!_

There was no doubt _where_ the sound came from – the fireplace was right behind Draco. _Who_ was coming through the Floo was the much more pressing question. For a petrifying (and boner-wilting) moment Draco wondered whether he was so late for the Manor that Mother was Floo-calling him. Then he heard the tell-tale shuffle of feet catching their balance after half-falling, half-hopping out of his fireplace. 

_Potter._

Draco groaned inwardly. He should have listened to the tiny voice in the back of his head that told him – repeatedly – not to take his wards down for Harry Potter. No matter that they had shared a macabre sort of a bonding moment over tea after discovering the skeletons of Draco's relatives. 

Benjy had gone very still beneath him, as if not moving would somehow Disillusion them. What bloody business did Potter have here, anyway, on a Sunday morning, too? 

Well, there was nothing for it. The bespectacled git was waiting before the fireplace, a bit flabbergasted, if Draco interpreted correctly the sharp intake of air behind his back. He righted himself and for a moment considered shoving his softening dick back into his pants. But... this was Potter. Potter who hid in the Golden Hind from all the single witches dreaming about marriage to the Golden Boy. When the _Prophet_ had interviewed Benjy about Potter's inclinations, he'd been a bit too certain that Potter was still a ladies' man. At least Draco thought so. For he'd watched Potter for years, and he'd seen him checking out blokes even back at Hogwarts. He'd seen him staring at tightly-clad arses and biceps, broad backs and sharply cut, unshaven jaws. And not only checking out the competition or just mildly curious about how the other half lives. No, there was a hunger to Potter's staring that said _I want that – to fuck, touch, bite and squeeze_. Draco knew those stares and that hunger only too well himself.

Which is why Draco Malfoy – gay and the only heir to one of the oldest pure-blood families in Britain, a faded Dark Mark on his left arm – slowly turned around, half-hard prick long and glistening pink, and he drawled, trademark smirk and all, "Your sense of timing, Potter, leaves something to be desired."

  
  
Illustration by Raitala   


Potter stood there with his Auror robes wide open, shirt with half the buttons in the wrong holes, hair unkempt, the usual state of affairs. The rest was not. He never looked so pale, so tired, his shoulders stooped as if he carried a burden much too heavy for one man alone. Draco wanted to take back his words at once. And he would have hurried to make himself presentable but for the look in Potter's absurdly green eyes. For there it was, unchecked and visible for all the world to see – the hunger, the need.

Potter's eyes were trained on Draco's cock. He moved the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip. It glistened red like cherries. An unconscious move, it had to be, but the effect it had on Draco was undeniable. Heat plummeted south, stirring an overwhelming desire, wild and wholly unexpected. Draco's thighs trembled. His breath came fast. He was painfully hard within short seconds, from a look and a lick. Pathetic. And yet it felt so... 

"Draco? Who is it?" Benjy's voice, still slurred with arousal, came from the armchair.

"Er..." Potter, articulate as always, took a swift step back. He landed right in the brass set of fire irons. The poker and prongs swayed in the stand, tilted and then crashed to the floor with a clatter and bang so loud it made Draco jump and Benjy yelp with startled surprise. Potter stood unmoving, as if he was made of brass himself, staring down at his boots beside the prongs.

"Potter..."

Potter's head snapped up and he searched Draco's face. Whatever he saw there made his jaw tense. He pressed his lips together and averted his gaze, away from Draco ( _away from his hard cock_ ) towards the fireplace. Hurt, disappointment – Draco wasn't sure what had just passed over Potter's face but it stung. Badly. Yes, he wanted Potter's approval. He wanted this precarious camaraderie they had established in the last weeks. 

"Potter," he said again, pulling his trousers over his unruly dick that just would not stay in his pants. "What is it?"

For something was clearly wrong. More than catching Draco with his cock up Benjy's arse at half past nine on a Sunday morning. Potter looked as if he hadn't slept a wink, and no matter this brief, odd, deliciously arousing moment between them, Draco knew Potter was not losing sleep over _him_. 

"Um." Potter searched the mantelpiece, his gaze moving from book to candle to the picture of Mother and Father, where he lingered for a moment, then to the old-fashioned keys of the Manor gate.

He was searching for Floo powder, Draco realised. Finally, he had his fly closed over his erection. He stepped towards the fireplace and reached for the jade pot hidden behind the roses on the mantelpiece.

"Did something happen to my cousin?" Handing Potter the pot, Draco felt like he should apologise, But then, Potter had walked in on him and Benjy. In Draco's flat. If an apology was called for, it was Potter who needed to say it. Instead, he took a pinch of Floo powder without even meeting Draco's eyes.

"Thank you." Apparently, now that he could leave, Potter had found his voice again. "Helena is in her holding cell in the Ministry for all I know." He pulled his wand from the sleeve of his robes. The next moment the ashy pile of wood sparked into a crackling fire.

No apology, no explanation why he had shown up unannounced and unexpected – nothing. Draco was too baffled to stop him but Potter hesitated, hand with the Floo powder pausing over the flames. He looked over his shoulder at Draco.

"I'll be at our office. If you can tear yourself away from..." A brief glance towards Benjy and a shrug and the fire flared green. Potter was gone before Draco could even think of an answer.

"My, my. The mighty Harry Potter is too straight for a bit of naked arse, it seems." Benjy chuckled, rolled off the armchair and disappeared into the loo.

 _Too straight for a bit of naked arse._

Draco didn't think so. He'd checked out Potter's crotch as he'd left. And the bulge Potter had been sporting as he'd stared at Draco? Definitely not too straight for a bit of naked arse.

*

_14 August, 2006 – later_

 _What kind of wizard hangs himself?_ Malfoy had said, and the words kept circling in Ron's head. Jacob Wilfing had been an average bloke from what Ron could tell. His girlfriend was gorgeous, though, a witch with shining black hair who'd given Savage a stern dressing-down when he'd insinuated Mr Wilfing might have had another woman on the side. Thirty-two years old, a procurer of potions ingredients for J. Pippin's Potions, his parents lived in the West Country near Tintagel, and he'd owned a flat in London – that's the kind of wizard Wilfing had been.

Now he was lying dead on the floating slab of stone in the Ministry's morgue, naked but for the white cloth covering his torso. A few light globes hovered above and in their cool light the skin of the dead man seemed artificial, like someone had poured a thin film of wax on him. Eyes closed, cheeks slack and jaw spelled closed, his hands lay uncurled at his sides. Ron had seen corpses that had looked so much worse, so much more obviously the victims of violent crime. And yet, there was something odd about Wilfing's body. If only he could lay his finger on it.

"I hope this is worth my time, Weasley." Robards stood on the other side of the floating stone. The light reflected off his gold-rimmed glasses. The man didn't much look the part of the seasoned Auror. He was at least three inches shorter than Ron and sported a pot-belly that spoke of too many hours in the pub and not much time out in the field.

But Robards had listened to Ron, _because a hunch is a hunch_ , and here they were, on a Sunday in the Ministry Morgue with a supposed suicide. 

"I really appreciate you letting me take a second a look, sir."

Out in the streets the _Sunday Prophet_ was screaming in huge purple headlines of the outrage that was the murder of Opal Leach. 'The Auror Department is failing wizarding Britain,' was one of the more harmless headlines. The body of the murdered girl was in a room three doors down the aisle. Mediwizard Barnes had just finished the autopsy. When he had come over to bring Wilfing's body out for them, his hands had been trembling. 

"Dawlish's not in," Robards grumbled. "He's owled, said, Sunday's not part of _his_ working week. What he means is, I'm not coming in on a weekend for a Squib. Williamson is furious. They are examining the body of the Leach girl right now. I have to get back there in a few. So let's get this business over with. Let's see what your hunch's worth, Weasley."

His feral smirk made Ron wonder whether they actually taught that smirk in Slytherin house. Robards still would come to work on occasion, wearing a snake-patterned green and silver tie. Never, when he and Harry had dreamed of becoming Aurors and rid the world of Dark wizards once and for all, had Ron imagined that he'd be working with so many Slytherins.

Robards gave him a nod, and Ron pulled off the white cloth.

An average bloke, he couldn't help thinking again, as Wilfing's torso was revealed. Not especially fit, but not scrawny, either. Bloodied red stripes formed a clearly visible line around his throat, with dark bruises above and below. There were scratches and abrasions on Wilfing's neck. Just above his collarbone was more bruising, a colourful display of purple and red on his white skin.

Robards stepped closer and bent his knees to bring his face level with Wilfing's upper body. "Give me the story. What do we know?"

Ron had his notes ready. Wilfing's file was on Dawlish's desk, coloured grey for suicide: inaccessible to a regular Auror like Ron if he went strictly by the books. But Parvati had a thing for Ron and while they had never talked about it (and never would), it meant Ron could get information from the Head Auror's office more easily than most other people. There wasn't much to Wilfing's file. It hadn't taken Ron five minutes to jot down the results of the autopsy. He cleared his throat.

"The body was discovered five days ago, sir. By a team of Obliviators. They were called to Obliviate a cleaning woman who had stumbled upon a magical artefact. Er ... the receptionist of the hotel is a wizard who lives in the Muggle world. He notified the Ministry."

"Go on." There was a faint trace of disdain in Robards' voice. He apparently did not approve of wizards living in the Muggle world.

"The Obliviators found Jacob Wilfing dead in a Muggle hotel room. Turned out, the cleaning lady wasn't shocked so much by the magical artefact but by the man hanging dead from the ceiling. Obliviator Headquarters called the Aurors." 

Robards nodded. He knew all of this, of course. It had been Ron, Robards and Savage who had responded to the call. Wilfing had hung from a large wrought-iron hook in the ceiling. Ron suspected that once a chandelier may have hung from it. Judging from the plush but shabby lobby, the hotel had seen better days. 

"What was the magical artefact, by the way? The one the cleaning woman saw?"

"A Snitch, sir."

Robards looked up with raised eyebrows. "A Snitch?"

"A gift for his girlfriend's son, sir. The new whizzing kind. It's controlled with a spell. It must have been in one of Wilfing's pockets and when he died the spell ended and the Snitch worked itself free." Ron had figured this one out mostly because the Whizzing Snitch had been invented by George and was sold at WWW. Ron had quite a few escape from his own pockets, too. 

Not that Robards seemed impressed. "What does Barnes have on the time of death?" He walked around the slab of stone, still crouched, examining every inch of the dead body. Ron was strangely reminded of a rotund crab circling its prey.

"Between midnight and six Tuesday morning." A six-hour window was very unspecific for a ligature strangulation. But despite all his fancy spellwork Barnes had been unable to give them a more precise time. "Barnes says Wilfing must have been sick. There was evidence that he'd been taking potions."

"Potions, huh?" Robards rose from his crouched position. "So, the man is dead five days. He's under a Stasis Charm, correct?"

"Er ..." Ron quickly glanced at the body. No lividity, no rigor mortis, no bloating or other signs of decay. All bodies still needed for evidence in an Auror investigation were put under a Stasis Charm. Why would Robards even ask? "I am sure that's what Mediwizard Barnes –"

"Is there anything in the autopsy report about injuries unrelated to the broken neck, Weasley? Little small wounds, look a bit like vampire bites?

 _What the –_ "No, sir. Why do you ask?"

"Come here for a second." Robards beckoned with two fingers, one of the arrogant gestures he was famous for. It was why he would never make Head Auror, Ron was sure of it, no matter that the gestures were wholly unconscious. But Shacklebolt despised any kind of arrogance.

He stood at Robards' side. "Sir?"

"Look, Weasley." Robards pointed at Wilfing's shoulder, then moved Wilfing's right arm away from the body.

There were marks, all right. The dead skin spotted bluish dots, lines of them, in irregular clusters of two or three. How in Merlin's name had they missed those? Ron reached out and touched the clusters that covered all of Wilfing's right shoulder, some even as far up as his neck. They should have seen them when they had taken the body down from the hook, when they had removed the rope, when they had Apparated Wilfing to the Ministry.

  
  
Illustration by Dustmouth   


"How..." Ron's throat was dry. "How could we have missed these? There is nothing..." He took a quick glance at his notes, but there wasn't a word in the file about puncture marks.

Robards should his head. "We didn't." He pulled his wand from the sleeve and cast a _Revelio_. 

Immediately green light seemed to encase the body, covering every inch of skin and hair. The light was soft and wholly translucent; the body looked as if it was wrapped in a diaphanous green veil. The small wounds were clearly visible underneath the Stasis Charm.

" _Revelio Totalus_ ," Robards incanted quietly but with perfect, powerful enunciation. 

A vicious shudder tore at the Stasis Charm. Only on second glance Ron realised it was only the light around Wilfing's shoulders, his neck, the sides of his torso and – oddly – his ankles that was in danger of fading. He blinked, startled. There was a soft snap – and the Stasis Charm was securely in place again.

"That's what I thought," Robards murmured. He waved his wand over the small wounds, muttering an incantation under his breath. No shudder this time, but small ripples seemed to move through light. 

"What is that?" Ron had drawn his wand by instinct, unaware of the movement until now.

"Some kind of fancy Disillusionment Charm." Robards stepped around the floating stone to the other side of the body. Ron followed him. There were blue dots on the skin there, as well. "Or rather, the magical trace of the charm. It's worn off, obviously, or we wouldn't be able to see the marks. Someone wanted to make sure those wounds were not discovered." He gestured at Ron with his chin. "Your hunch was a good one, Weasley. You may become a passable Auror, after all." He shot Ron his most arrogant smirk but for once Ron did not mind. Praise from Robards' mouth was unheard of on Level Two.

"It's not a suicide, then?" he asked.

Robards examined Wilfing's ankle. "Go get Barnes. They don't need him with the Leach girl." He propped up his glasses and brought his face so close that his nose touched dead skin. "Not baby Kneazle bites," he mumbled, obviously speaking to himself. "Blackthorns, perhaps? An Aesculin poisoning would be very unusual..."

Ron walked to the door. When Robards worked on a case like this, he was better left undisturbed. He was just about to leave the room when Robards called out behind him.

"A suicide? Not bloody likely." He scoffed, turning Wilfing's foot. "I'll eat my broom, with nothing but salt and bacon grease, if this is a suicide. Hurry, Weasley. Get that fool Barnes over here."

*

_14 August, 2006 – even later_

Draco had not even changed out of his Sunday robes. He'd rushed by Floo straight from the Manor's huge fireplace to the Ministry's Atrium. Stupid Potter had probably long gone home. He had not answered Draco's quickly scrawled owl ( _I need to see my mother. Will be in the office the minute I can leave_ ). Surely the unbred git had no inkling of the importance of Sunday brunch with one's mother and how Draco could not simply bow out of a ritual when it gave his mother a sense of permanence after her world had fallen apart. 

But Potter would be mad at Draco, something which he was not looking forward to. To be around an angry Potter was like being stuck in Dante's fifth circle of hell. And of course it was all because of Potter's saving fetish. Salazar, Draco did feel bad for Opal Leach, too. He might not share her political views nor those of her famous family, but nobody should die that young. Not after the wizarding world had just come out of a war. _Not ever._

When he'd arrived at the Manor, Mother had both the _Sunday Prophet_ and the _Quibbler_ spread on the table in front of her. She was pale, paler than she had been in months. The news was splashed all over the front pages: Opal Leach, granddaughter of the famous Nobby Leach, the first Muggle-born Minister for Magic, had been found dead after she had gone missing four days ago. The Aurors had not revealed the specifics of her death but rumour said it had been violent and painful, the deed of a lunatic.

  
  
Portrait by Raitala   


The wizarding world loved Opal. She had been a beautiful, nineteen-year old Squib who had used her family's money and influence to further the cause of 'non-magical witches and wizards', as apparently Squibs preferred to be called. Just a couple of weeks ago Opal had been in the _Prophet_ with an article, a passionate, personal plea for allowing Squibs admission into Hogwarts, to learn – even if only theoretically – about their magical heritage.

The article had caused Father to cancel his subscription to the _Prophet_ , only to have Mother renew it the moment she'd heard what her husband had done. Draco's parents had not spoken with each other for days. Even now, Squib rights were a forbidden topic at the Malfoy breakfast table.

Of course it was ludicrous to even think of granting Squibs such privileges. They were without magic, nearer to Muggles than to wizarding kind. Draco was all for giving them special schooling and helping them find a place in the magical world but Squibs at Hogwarts? There was just no good sense in such a proposal. Granted, Draco knew only Filch and the elderly woman in the Ministry cafeteria who brewed his Earl Grey to delicious perfection. She, at least, seemed happy enough. 

He had _not_ shared his views about Squib rights with Mother today. She was shaken enough by the dreadful news. During tea, she had read aloud Nobby Leach's interview with his granddaughter from a couple of years ago, reprinted by the _Quibbler_. You had to admire the great wizard for his astute arguments and the level-headedness of his beliefs. Clearly, Opal had inherited both his gift for politics and her charisma from him. Had she not been a Squib – _had she not been murdered_ – she might some day have become another Minister for Magic. Granger, ever canvassing for a new and noble cause, surely would have made it happen.

Draco quickly walked towards the lifts. The Ministry was empty, as was to be expected on a Sunday afternoon. Still, the silence felt odd on a day like this, when the body of one of the most promising political activists had been found dead in a small street in Muggle London. Even the newly restored fountain of the Magical Brethren had stopped spouting water into the pool.

A clattering and jingling greeted Draco when he reached the golden gates separating the Atrium from the lifts. The security stand was deserted, but to the right, the golden grille slid back from a lift, the doors opening as a voice announced, "Level Eight. Entrance and Reception Area of the Ministry of Magic."

Briggs stepped out, dressed in pearly dark robes, his long grey hair tucked back into an elegant bun. For a moment Draco was too shocked to even close his mouth after his jaw had dropped open. _Briggs._ What business could father's lawyer possibly have in the Ministry, on a Sunday, the Sunday when Opal Leach had been found dead?

"Mr Malfoy." Briggs inclined his head and moved past Draco. A few smooth steps brought him through the golden gates and into the Atrium. He was gone in whoosh of fire before Draco could even return his greeting.

Draco shook his head. This did not bode well. He had to find Potter. Fast.

*

_14 August, 2006 – early afternoon_

"I am not doing it."

Potter stood before their desks, arms crossed before his chest, looking formidable and furious in red Auror robes. Draco hadn't even had a chance to explain why he had not come in earlier, or address the issue of Potter having ruined his Sunday morning fuck. He had walked into their office, still trying to figure out Father's machinations, and had found Potter fuming. He was as angry as Draco had suspected but for an entirely different reason.

A slim file was lying on Harry's desk, starkly black, ornamented with cobwebs and broad orange stripes. A murder case ( _black_ ), murder with the use of magic ( _orange stripes_ ). A dust case, obviously, or it wouldn't have landed on Potter's desk in the Cold Case Division.

"What is it?" Draco reached for the file. 

_Igor Karkaroff._ The official red Ministry brand that said 'closed' was crossed out and restamped 're-opened' in capital letters. "Karkaroff... How can that case be reopened? Karkaroff was a traitor. He was killed by the men he betrayed. The men who were sent to Azkaban because of his testimony." 

Rosier, Mulciber, Dolohov. Nott. Eight years since the end of the war and Draco still knew their faces as if they had been gathering in the Manor's drawing room only last night. 

Potter snorted, and it was not a nice sound. "Well, I thought so, too. Turns out, they were convicted only on circumstantial evidence. Mulciber made a statement in his release interview. He claims they didn't do it." 

Draco sat down at his desk and opened the file. The transcript of Mulciber's statement was on the first page, added to the file only a couple of days ago. He smelled a rat, some ploy by Dawlish to send Harry Potter on another wild-goose chase into the dusty past. And Unspeakable Malfoy right along with him. Then he saw the signature under the report. Williamson. 

"Did you see that Williamson conducted the interview?"

"Yeah." 

Potter's voice sounded so raw that Draco quickly looked up. Potter's eyes had that over-tired, bloodshot look, even worse than this morning. He was obviously running on nothing but caffeine and sugar. The right side of his desk was littered with newspapers – a copy of the same _Sunday Prophet_ Mother had been reading at the Manor, the pages pulled apart and left in disarray. He should make Potter go home and sleep it off. Opal Leach would be as dead tomorrow as she was today.

"Yeah, I saw. It means nothing. He's Dawlish's man, too."

"True enough." Draco spoke carefully. Williamson was Muggle-born. The man had no interest in reopening cases when it meant that convicted Death Eaters might be acquitted of a murder charge. And while Williamson was loyal to Dawlish he was also a very good Auror. Paid attention to detail. If he thought this case warranted another investigation, there had to be something to it.

"Here." Potter stepped closer. He looked straight into Draco's face, a bit too directly, as if he was afraid to let his gaze drop lower, below Draco's chin. 

Draco inwardly rolled his eyes. He reached for the purple piece of parchment Potter handed him. It was an unfolded interdepartmental memo. _Auror Potter, here's your next case to 'dust off'_ , it read.

"From Dawlish."

"Obviously." Draco crumpled the memo up and threw it into the bin where it joined two tall paper cups from the coffee shop. Definitely running only on caffeine, Potter was. He went back to the file and started to read. But after two paragraphs he stopped. Potter was hovering at the door to the potions lab. It was disconcerting, to have Harry Potter stare at one's back. "What is it, Potter?"

"About this morning..."

Ah, finally. This was bound to be interesting. Draco turned around, making the swivel chair creak. "What about it?" He spread his legs at least an inch wider than he usually would. 

Potter didn't have a very pronounced Adam's apple but Draco saw him swallow hard. 

"I am not apologising", he said, a stubborn tilt to his jaw. "Not for walking in on the two of you. Anybody could have come through your fireplace at ten on a Sunday morning."

 _The git._ Draco was sorely tempted to push his hips forward, just to make Potter even more uncomfortable. Tiny sparks of lust were tingling in his groin, and Merlin, just thinking about Potter all abash in front of the fireplace made him hard again. "So what then, about this morning? When I will not get an apology from you."

"I do apologise. For... well, running off like I did." 

Potter's cheeks had a bright pink tinge to them. It contrasted oddly with the tiredness in his eyes. Before the faded grey of the door, Potter's hair seemed to be the colour of the dark blue night sky over Wiltshire. Which was the oddest thought, really. Potter's hair was a mess, a rat's nest, no matter how short he had it cut these days. Draco should not think about bluish highlights that their office's old-fashioned lighting brought out in the tangled strands.

"Why did you run away then?" he asked. "Never seen a circumcised cock?" Really, Draco couldn't help it. 

Potter snorted. "You were not the only roundhead at Hogwarts, Malfoy. Ron had a habit of walking naked to the loo. Before _and_ after his morning wank in the shower. Believe me, I've seen circumcised cock in all its clipped glory."

"I _knew_ you were ogling boys at Hogwarts. But Weasley? Honestly, don't you have any taste in men?"

"I think I do." 

If Draco was not mistaken, there was a mischievous glint in Potter's eyes. Not only hiding in the Golden Hind then to merely escape the adoring female gold diggers. "So have you done it? Ever slept with a man?"

Potter gave a low rumbling laugh. "You're awfully curious, Malfoy, for a Sunday afternoon." 

"Did you?"

"I may have had a man suck me of." 

"And did you return the favour?" A blowjob between mates was not unusual, not at Hogwarts or any of the other wizarding boarding schools. But it was mostly the boys who did the sucking who turned out to be gay.

"That, too." 

Muggles. Potter must haven taken his sex life to the Muggle world, or Draco would have heard about it. Interesting... _Witch Weekly_ certainly would love to run an article about the secret love life of their Golden Bachelor.

"And that information is strictly between you and me, Malfoy."

Draco smirked at Potter. "Of course." He turned to the file, making the swivel chair squeak again. Transcript of the trial on 16 December 1998; autopsy report of Karkaroff's body, a blurry picture of the shack where the body had been found, near a village up north named Goathland; reports of the statements given by the accused; testimonies of Muggles who had been questioned by the Aurors under pretence of a Muggle police investigation. The sentence was passed on circumstantial evidence: Rosier, Mulciber, Dolohov and Nott were known to act as a group. A Muggle had seen a group of four men stand in the field behind the shack. Neither of the men had an alibi for the time of death, and there was evidence that tied Dolohov to the scene of the crime. The others had been identified conclusively by a Muggle witness.

A mug shot of Theo's father was attached with a Sticking Charm to his statement. Mr Nott looked frail, his sunken cheeks unshaven and his eyes glancing to the left over and over again. Draco wondered who had sat there seven years ago. "Potter..."

Potter came nearer and looked over his shoulder. He smelled of coffee, sweat and tiredness, with traces of his spicy eau de cologne filling Draco's nose.

"What?"

"Why did you run away? This morning in my flat?" Draco flipped over another page. Antonin Dolohov's statement. Potter leaned in closer and Draco turned his head. 

Potter stared at the mug shot where Dolohov kept raising his fist in front of his face, up and up, again and again. Draco wondered what memories Potter had of Dolohov. He himself remembered all too well the twisted face and his signature spell – purple fire slashing through helpless Muggles in the Manor's dungeons. Draco had felt nothing but relief when he'd heard that Dolohov had been sentenced to Azkaban for life.

"I... well, I had not expected to find you... you know... with Benjy." Potter turned another page. Mulciber's statement from November 1998. 

Draco skimmed the pages, looking for inconsistencies, contradicting details, anything. He didn't find nothing. Williamson had done his job. There were no conflicting statements from the accused. They all had pleaded not guilty. "And seeing me with Benjy made you run away?"

"I didn't know you are together. Like this, I mean." 

"Together like what, Potter?" 

"Together like, he stays with you at your place on the weekends." 

"Well, he is my boyfriend." Draco said, feeling perhaps a bit too smug about it. _Boyfriend_ was a big word for what Benjy Williams was to him. _Boy toy_ would be closer to the truth. But Potter didn't need to know this. Not when he seemed so deliciously annoyed about Benjy's presence in Draco's flat.

"More your boy toy, I thought," Potter said without even a glance at Draco. He kept pouring over the bloody file.

"He doesn't just suck me off behind some Muggle bar, if that's what you mean."

Potter cringed. A reaction, at least. "Sorry, Malfoy, my apologies. I didn't mean to imply you're –"

"All right, all right." Merlin, something about Potter was driving Draco up the wall. He pushed the file in his direction. "Let's concentrate on this and see what mess Dawlish is trying to get us into."

Potter righted his body and walked to the door. "I know what Dawlish wants. He wants headlines that say Harry Potter is chasing ghosts, Death Eater ghosts, at a time when witches and wizards are killed. But I'm not doing it." 

Someone had put a straight backed wooden chair beside the door, for visitors, presumably. As if anybody would visit them back here where dust and spider webs gathered in the corners. And yet Potter pulled the chair close and sat on its edge, his body leaning forward eagerly, towards the file. Not for the first time Draco thought that Potter was a born Auror, heart and soul.

"Right." He sat back and watched Potter read.

"Mulciber denies he was anywhere near the shack when Karkaroff was killed."

Draco nodded. "They were tried on circumstantial evidence only." 

Potter turned to the next statement. It was by Greatuncle Caligula. Draco glanced to the bottom of page and found the silvery stamp saying _deceased_. He sighed inwardly. His family was a den of murderers and lunatics. Hopefully Potter did not know Draco was rather closely related to Caligula Rosier. The image of Briggs stepping out of the lift flashed through his mind. What in Merlin's name was father up to? 

Potter pointed at the stamp. "Rosier died four years ago, it says here."

"He was a very old man. I... I never saw him in the Manor. The Dark Lord had never forgiven him for deserting him after he had to go into hiding."

Draco's tone of voice, deliberately casual, must have given him away, for Potter quickly turned to him. 

"Could he have been the one who killed Karkaroff?" All signs of exhaustion had disappeared from Potter's face, only his eyes seemed less bright than on other days. "Rosier was part of your family on the Black side, wasn't he? "

 _Salazar..._ How in Merlin's name had Potter suddenly become an expert on pureblood genealogy? "Greatuncle," Draco muttered, then said more loudly, "Even if he did kill Karkaroff, there is no substantive evidence."

Potter pointed at a few squiggly notes, written with green ink underneath the official statement. "No Veritaserum used for the interrogation", he read aloud. "Someone did a piss-poor job of gathering substantive evidence." He leaved through the remaining pages, leaning a bit to the side so Draco could read as well. 

The file consisted of no more than perhaps twenty pages. One had the results of a _Prior Incantato_ performed on Dolohov's wand. He had cast a Morsmordre above the shack. But he apparently had not killed Igor Karkaroff. The _Prior Incantato_ had revealed any number of Dark spells recently performed but no _Avada Kedavra_. But what if... "Go back to the autopsy report."

"What do you want..." Potter did not finish what he'd meant to ask but went back to the beginning of the file. 

There it was, the report of the post mortem of Karkaroff's body printed on bright yellow parchment, signed by a mediwizard Draco did not know. Barnes' predecessor, or someone from St Mungo's.

"Cause of death: asphyxiation through manual strangulation, accomplished by applying continuous pressure to the windpipe for approximately 3 to 5 minutes." Draco was reminded of Jacob Wilfing and Weasley's insistence that the wizard had not hung himself.

"Karkaroff was strangled," Potter said, surprise in his voice. "By someone using his bare hands."

Draco must have unconsciously leaned closer towards the file, at the same time that Potter brought his bespectacled eyes nearer to the page. They were so close, he could feel the warmth of the man beside him.

"No magic," Potter said slowly.

Draco traced the orange stripe on the thick black parchment. "The case has been misfiled. There was no magic used in the murder of Igor Karkaroff. It doesn't make sense, Potter. Dolohov was an expert on the _Adava Kedavra_." Draco had seen him kill the Muggles after he'd slashed their bodies open with his purple fire spell. "Why would any of them strangle Karkaroff? With their hands, too?"

Potter blinked, then he rose abruptly. The chair scraped across the floor. "I'm going over to Ron. He and Robards have been re-examining Wilfing's body. Maybe they discovered something that helps us find whoever abducted and killed Opal Leach." The exhaustion was back in Potter's shoulder, in the corners of his mouth, and in his eyes.

Draco rose, as well. "I want to do this. I want to find out who really killed Karkaroff."

Potter looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since Draco had come into their office today. "I thought you might." 

His voice was calm and cool, devoid of emotion; he stood upright, arms hanging loosely at his sides. So different from the blushing man who'd stumbled out of Draco's fireplace this morning. And Draco knew what Potter didn't say. _I thought you might want to clear some Death Eater's name._

"It's not what you think, Potter."

"Isn't it?"

"You remember Nott. Theo. Theodore Nott?"

"Sure. Tall, thin guy. Slytherin. Pureblood." Potter's voice was laced with disdain.

Draco let it pass. "He... well, he hasn't been well since the war." Two suicide attempts, but Potter didn't need to know that. "He's been in and out of St Mungo's."

"So?" 

"It would mean a lot to him if his father was released from Azkaban." There. He said it. It had been on his mind since he saw Mr Nott's mug shot.

Potter blinked again. It had to be his exhaustion showing. "He will never be released. Even if we find out he wasn't the one responsible for Karkaroff's death. He has been a loyal Death Eater in both wizarding wars. He's shown no remorse, Malfoy. I know Nott's father. He was in the Department of Mysteries when your father tried to steal the prophecy." He swallowed. "He was there when your aunt killed Sirius, Malfoy." 

They could never be friends, not ever. The past was always lurking just around the corner, waiting for them in those dust cases, hidden underneath all the good-natured banter, the flirting even. Draco only noticed he was biting his lip when he tasted blood. "It would mean a lot to Theo. Just to hear some good news about his father." It was a helpless plea, and Draco knew it.

Again, Potter blinked. And swallowed. And, oddly, blushed. "Ron is waiting for me," he said.

"I am going up to Goathland tomorrow," Draco blurted out. "I want to at least look at the shack. Maybe I find something."

Potter turned to open the door without a word.

"Are you coming with me?" 

Potter stood for a moment, his back framed by the dark hallway. "I'll see you tomorrow, Malfoy," he said and was gone.

*

_15 August, 2006 - a Monday_

Potter was already in the Portkey Office when Draco got there three minutes to eight. He held a much-thumbed stack of cards in his hands, tied together with a piece of string. Potter was wearing Muggle clothes and he couldn't possibly have combed his hair this morning. But he looked relaxed and chipper as if he had a good night's sleep, something Draco could not claim for himself.

"Portkey to Goathland," Potter said. "We are scheduled to depart in two minutes." 

"I'm glad I made it in time then," Draco replied.

"I knew you'd come."

"I didn't think you'd come."

Potter shrugged. "I am not doing this for Nott." He shoved the stack of cards against Draco's chest.

Draco got a hold of Potter's arm and drew him closer. "Why are you doing it then?" he asked, putting his left hand on the cards.

The Portkey Office vanished, the Ministry's polished floor disappeared below their feet. Draco felt the familiar forceful jerk behind his navel, and he instinctively held on tighter to both Potter and the stack of cards between them. They were propelled forward in a whirlwind of greens and blues and a rushing wind smelling of Potter and bee's wax and fresh hay. Draco's feet hit the ground hard, his knees buckled and he was pushed against Potter. The world came to a halt.

"Somewhere out there a murderer got away." Potter's voice was very close to Draco's ear. "He killed an ex-Death Eater, but that doesn't make it right." 

So typical. Draco felt himself bristle at the righteousness in Potter's tone. "Don't ever forget that I'm an ex-Death Eater, too."

Potter stepped backwards, away from Draco, the stack of cards still in his hands. Draco might have imagined it but he thought Potter's eyes moved to his left arm, to the faded Dark Mark hidden underneath the sleeve of his cloak.

"I never forget, Malfoy. That's what this is about."

Draco stared at him, then shook his head. Potter really was unbelievable. Still, Draco could not help smiling. He quickly turned away to look where the Portkey had landed them.

The shack where Karkaroff had been killed turned out to be a small hunter's lodge. Four magnificent deer antlers were mounted to one wall and furs of wild boars covered the floor. The lodge was Muggle, for all Draco could tell. There was Muggle dish soap at the metal sink, and an old Muggle radio stood on a rickety table.

Potter already had his wand out and was searching the lodge. The windows were dusty. The fields surrounding the lodge lay golden and brown in the morning sunlight. A couple of brick houses were visible perhaps half a mile away. 

Draco tried to imagine Igor Karkaroff sleeping in the bunk bed that stood in one corner. There was no sign that a wizard had ever been here. Or was there? Draco squinted at a small painting on the left side of the door. The dark frame showed a flower stand with a bouquet of wildflowers. A monocle was lying on the stand.

"Strange, isn't it?" Potter stood beside him. 

"It seems... empty."

Potter raised his wand and said an incantation Draco had never heard. It had to be an Auror spell. Nothing happened. Still, Potter stood, listening intently. And then Draco heard it, too. A soft scratching from the wall behind the painting. A tiny tinkling sound from the cupboard.

"Permanent Sticking Charm," Potter said, pointing at the painting. "And this..." He walked to the cupboard, listened again, then opened one of the drawers. The tinkling became louder, and Potter took a spoon from the drawer, a small silver teaspoon. Draco could see that it vibrated in Potter's hand. "This spoon was used for magic. A long time ago."

"Ten years ago, perhaps?" Karkaroff had been killed in 1996, during the summer.

Potter nodded. "Ten years sounds about right."

"Nifty spell."

"It's one that Æthelbert Farrell developed." Potter's lips twitched. "It works well in small, confined spaces. We are lucky this is just a shack and not a house."

"If you show me the spell, I may be able to improve on Farrell's work."

Potter grinned at Draco. "I am sure you can. Improve on Farrell's work, I mean."

"Does it tell you what kind of magic the spoon was used for?"

"No. It just indicates traces of magic. Nothing more."

"I may be able to improve on that as well."

Another grin. Potter, Draco couldn't help thinking, had a very catching grin.

"What do you think about the painting?" Potter asked.

"It's a portrait. But whose I have no idea."

*

_15 August, 2006 - a bit later_

The stack of cards, it turned out, was a fancy two-way Portkey – spelled with not one but two _Portus Charms_. It was sitting on the desk beside the radio. They simply had to touch the bottom of it and the Portkey would transport them back to the Ministry.

Potter had used every advanced spellwork taught at the DMLE; Draco had added his own set of secret Unspeakable spells. They had found nothing. The shack had been used by Muggles, but certainly not in the last year. There was the empty portrait and the silver spoon, yet no other trace of magic. 

Draco found out one interesting bit: Potter had a thing for vases. Or something. When they searched the kitchen, Draco saw him take a small vase from the shelf and slip it surreptitiously into his pocket. It was a pretty vase, made from blue glass, but nothing expensive or special. Apparently the Saviour of the wizarding world was not above nicking pretty things. 

"Let's go back," Draco finally said. If he had the silver spoon in his potions lab, he might be able to detect what it had been used for.

Potter slid his wand in the back pocket of his trousers, and they both reached for the stack of cards.

"Gentlemen," a voice said behind them. "One minute of your precious time, if you don't mind."

Draco jumped so hard his knee painfully hit the table's edge. Potter grabbed him by the front of his cloak. They both turned around at the same time and almost tripped over their own feet.

"Salazar!"

"What the bloody fuck!"

A square-jawed witch with closely cropped grey hair smiled at them from the portrait. She stood beside the flower stand, and Draco noticed the monocle was now fixed to her right eye.

"Amelia Bones," Potter whispered.

Draco involuntarily took a step back. He remembered vividly the news of Amelia Bones' death. Father had been tried before the Wizengamot, he had just been thrown into Azkaban. And Draco had had been so angry, so furious about how the Malfoy name and family was slandered by the wizarding world. He had joined the Death Eaters this summer, mere days after Lord Voldemort had killed Amelia Bones. He had been so proud then. And so afraid.

"I am pleased somebody is checking into the death of poor Igor," the portrait of Amelia Bones said. "It's an honour to meet you again, Harry. Mr Potter, I should say. Kingsley tells me you will be Head Auror in a couple of years. We will be seeing more of each other then. " She smiled at Potter, then turned her monocled eye to Draco. "Mr Malfoy, what a surprise. How very strange to see the two of you working together. A fascinating story, I am sure. You will tell me, Harry, one day. But now..." 

They must have stared at her, for Bones adjusted her monocle.

"Er..." Potter was stumbling over words again. A red flush was spreading from his neck to his cheeks. And what a fine Head Auror he would make. It was all rather adorable.

"Mrs Bones," Draco said, turning from Potter to the portrait of Amelia Bones. "Can you tell us anything about who murdered Igor Karkaroff?"

*

_15 August, 2006 - early afternoon_

The shack up north near Goathland, Amelia Bones told them, had been used as a safehouse for the Auror Department during the war. When Igor Karkaroff asked the Wizengamot for protection after Voldemort's return, the DMLE had offered him the shack as a hiding place. Only, Karkaroff had not been safe in the shack. Someone, Bones said, had betrayed their secret. _I don't know who; I have no idea. Only the Minister for Magic and myself knew about the safehouse. And Fudge, for all his weaknesses, was no traitor._

But she could tell them the secret of the silver spoon. _Karkaroff's Portkey, of course,_ she said, her right eye twinkling beneath the monocle.

Now they were back at the Portkey Office, searching the records for Portkeys to and from Goathland in the summer of 1996.

It had been Potter's idea. And it was rather brilliant, Draco had to admit. They had already found the Portkey that must have transported Dolohov, Mulciber, Rosier and Nott to Goathland. Two Portkeys actually, one for the journey up north, the other for the journey back. 

Potter knew the employee working at the Portkey Office, a big bald bloke named Basil, no last name given. He was wearing a kilt with a plaid pattern of overly bright turquoise and shrill lemony greens. Draco had to squint to not be blinded by the colours. Potter kept complimenting Basil on his _dashing_ choice of attire. 

They were pouring over a large, leather-bound tome that had all authorised Portkeys listed since the beginning of the twentieth century. Basil had shown them six more such tomes that listed all the Portkeys issues since the invention of the _Portus Charm_ by an unknown wizard or witch back in the 13th century.

Karkaroff's dead body had been found on 31 July, 1996. It had been a comfortably warm July, and – according to the autopsy report – putrefaction had already set in when the body was discovered.

According to Basil's records, the four Death Eaters had been in Goathland on July 29. When they believed Mulciber's statement from the release interview, Karkaroff had already been dead by then.

"There's only six more Portkey issued in July," Draco said. "And none of them for Goathland."

"And Amelia Bones said she had received an Owl from Karkaroff on July 7, three days before Voldemort killed her."

Draco nodded, staring at the neat letters, written in blue ink. _Date of issue, date of travel, charmed object, destination._ The ledger did not say who was travelling by Portkey, only whether the Portkey had been used or not.

He glanced at the previous month and inadvertently looked for his birthday, June 5. Someone had used a Portkey on that day, to travel to Scalloway on the Shetland islands. The charmed object had been a book, Wilbert Slinkhard's _Occlumentia_ , a book on medieval methods of Occlumency. It was very hard to find, and Draco only knew the book because Algernon... He sat up. _Occlumentia?_ But...

"Basil, one question."

Potter looked up. "Did you find something?"

"Maybe." This probably had nothing to do with the death of Igor Karkaroff, but it was the oddest coincidence. "Basil, do you remember who used this Portkey. This one?" Draco pointed at the line where it said in blue letters: 'Charmed Object: Wilbert Slinkhard's _Occlumentia_ '.

"Oh." Basil took a deep breath. "That one – that was a mistake."

"A mistake? So the book was never used as a Portkey?"

"No, it was used. That was the mistake. See..." Basil walked into a corner of the Portkey Office and brought out a box filled with broken things – cracked plates and cups, a pan without a handle, rusty cutlery, pieces of cloth, bits of cheap jewellery. Draco even saw a broken Snitch that fluttered weakly amidst the rubbish. "This is what we use for the Portkeys. We charm 'em, set the travel date, and then they are ready to go."

"And this book – someone had left it in a box of rubbish?"

Basil slowly shook his bald head. "Not... exactly. See, sometimes we call on an Unspeakable to charm a Portkey. The two-way ones. The magic is a bit too advanced for me – never was any good at Charms. So back then we had this young Unspeakable come for the advanced _Portus_. Nice bloke. You probably know him, Mr Malfoy. He's still working for the Department of Mysteries."

"Algernon Dorny," Draco said. 

"Yeah, that's the one." Basil flashed a toothy grin at Draco. "Only you know, Dorny is not his real name. Rookwood, he used to be called back then. Like his father." He nodded. "He changed his name after... you know, everything that happened. In the war."

Potter was looking from the tome to Basil to Draco. "Augustus Rookwood?" he asked. There was a glint in his eyes now but no sign of mischief. This was Potter the Auror following a lead that had just turned hot like burning.

Augustus Rookwood, Unspeakable, Death Eater, the Dark Lord's spy in the Department of Mysteries. When Karkaroff made his deal with the Ministry, he had presented Rookwood's name, and Rookwood had been tried and sent to Azkaban. Fifteen years on the Rock. Because of the Russian. Draco seemed to remember that Mrs Rookwood had killed herself shortly after her husband had been locked away. He didn't know Algernon Dorny well, but Draco knew one thing about him: he hated Death Eaters. 

Basil nodded vigorously. "That's the one."

"And this Algernon – he is his son?"

"He is. He doesn't like to have it shouted from the rooftops, but yes, he is Augustus Rookwood's son." Basil seemed to realise something was wrong. His voice had lost his friendly cockiness, and he stepped backwards to bring more distance between Potter and him.

"Who," Potter asked slowly, "charmed the Portkey that Igor Karkaroff used to travel to Goathland?"

Basil swallowed. "Well, Algernon, of course. As I said, he was doing all the spellwork for the advanced Portkeys."

Draco already started to turn the heavy pages. "Karkaroff went into hiding after the Triwizard Tournament. When was the last task, Potter?"

"June 24." Potter did not even have to think. His face was a mask, eyes unmoving, lips pressed into a tight line. _Cedric Diggory._

The entries were written just as neatly as the one from 1996, only the colour of the ink had been changed to a dark green. Draco scanned the list of authorised Portkeys.

"There," he said, pointing towards an entry from the middle of July. _Date of issue: 27 June 1995, date of travel: 4 July 1995, charmed object: silver spoon, destination: Goathland up in the north._

"Algernon left his book here, you see. Forgot it," Basil said, using his large hands to tell his tale. "It must have got in the bin, and well, it's an old book and I didn't think twice about using it for a Portkey. I _Portused_ it and the witch took it. Travelled to Scalloway to visit her brother. It was a normal Portkey. One-way, I mean." He ducked his head as if to apologise. "I tried to get the book back, I honestly tried. But you know how it is with Portkeys. Once used, they're just rubbish. Algernon was pretty upset, though. It is a very expensive book, isn't it, Mr Malfoy?"

"A very rare book. To my knowledge, only three copies exist. One is at Hogwarts, one my father owns, and the third belonged to Algernon. We talked about it a couple of years ago." Draco was watching Potter cast a Patronus. A silver stag was prancing up and down the Portkey Office.

"Ron, I need a couple of Aurors for an imminent arrest. We meet before the Department of Mysteries in two minutes." Potter spoke more clearly to the stag than Draco had ever heard him speak. Then he turned to Draco. "You're coming?"

*

_15 August, 2006 - late afternoon_

Algernon Dorny, who used to be Algernon Rookwood, sat in the Ministry's holding cell. They had a full confession. He had strangled Karkaroff, with his bare hands, short weeks after the death of Amelia Bones. An act of revenge, on first glance, but underneath there was so much more: A fifteen year old boy whose father had gone from being an esteemed Unspeakable to an inmate of Azkaban. A seventeen year old boy whose mother had killed herself because she could no longer bear the shame. A young man who had to hide his name to be able to get a job and a life in the post-war wizarding world. Revenge, they said, was a dish best eaten cold. The man who had so violently strangled Igor Karkaroff was a bitter man, a man who had let the past rule his entire life. 

Potter said, "He reminds me of you. And then again, not at all."

Draco felt oddly lucky that his father was alive. They brought out the Firewhiskey and declared another cold case done and dusted. Weasley joined them, and even Williamson stopped by when he heard the news of the arrest.

That good feeling lasted only for an hour or so. Then Granger came to tell them what had happened in the Wizengamot this morning. There had been a heated debate about the Helena Malfoy trial. Helena had come with a lawyer ( _Briggs, Draco was sure of it_ ) and claimed that she never admitted to killing anyone. The Muggle boy? She had _loved_ him. Perhaps she'd been disturbed when Auror Potter and Unspeakable Malfoy had questioned her. Perhaps Auror Potter and Unspeakable Malfoy had heard what they wanted hear and not what Helena had really said. 

In the end the trial had been cancelled; Helena had been acquitted of the murder charge. Granger said she'd seen her and the lawyer leave the Atrium a couple of hours ago.

Potter was furious. Ever since Draco had seen Briggs in the Ministry, he had had an inkling something like this would be coming. He did not tell Potter but Potter was not dumb. 

"You and me know pretty well that this woman was not lying to us, Malfoy. There is only one reason why half the Wizengamot was now so happily inclined to believe Helena's story. That lawyer was bought with Malfoy money, and I bet Malfoy Galleons were trickling into the pockets of some select members of the Wizengamot, as well."

After they'd screamed at each other for long minutes, Draco was back to hating Potter, the self-righteous prick. "That may well be the case. But you know, Potter, Galleons just don't trickle. Corruption is a two-way business: it needs someone handing over Galleons as much as someone taking them. Maybe your great _reformed_ Ministry is still not all that it's cracked up to be."

He stormed out of their office, wanting nothing but fuck Benjy into the mattress all night long. _Bloody stupid Harry Potter._

*

_15 August, 2006 - just before midnight_

Benjy Williams sat on the low stone wall beside the Leaky Cauldron. It was so dark he could barely make out the shapes of the garbage bins lined up at the side of the building. A cat meowed a couple of yards away, up front on Diagon Alley a few late-night patrons walked drunkenly down the street.

It was a perfect night.

Mundungus Fletcher Disapparated half an hour late, as usual, but even this could not put a damper on Benjy's good mood. He kicked one of the garbage bins so the crack of Apparition was drowned in the clatter of the bins and the wild screaming of the cats. A couple of rats scattered.

When Mundungus handed Benjy the small sack of Galleons, the moonlight caught on a ring on his finger. Benjy had never seen the ring before, but he recognised the Malfoy crest at once. The crest was everywhere in Draco's flat, a black ornate M. He wondered where Mundungus might have got such a precious piece of jewellery. 

But then he got distracted and forgot about the ring. They had much more important business to discuss: the results of next weekend's Quidditch games. Benjy felt a small sting, because next weekend Puddlemere United was going down. It would not be nice to be on the loosing team. But then he weighed the sack of Galleons in his hand. It was more than enough to make up for a bit of 'bad luck' on the Quidditch pitch.

When Benjy Williams walked down Diagon to finally get some sleep, he came by the office of the _Daily Prophet_. In the display window tomorrow's headlines screamed in bright red and stark black letters: OPAL LEACH DEAD BY TORTURE – **while HARRY POTTER hunts ghosts of the past!**

* * * 

  



	4. Episode #4: Sleeping Beauty and the Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a young woman in St Mungo’s who’s been in a coma for nine years. Potter is a basket case, but can also handle himself as a professional. And Malfoy isn’t half bad.

“Here boys, drink up.” Hannah placed two fresh butterbeers in front of Harry and Neville.

“So, congrats on your promotion!” Neville raised his mug and pushed it against Harry’s.

“Promotion, my arse. It’s more like a dead post to keep me quiet. You should hear the others; _dust cases_ they call my work. Everyone else is busy with the murder of Opal Leach. You must have read about it.” After a nod from Neville, Harry continued. “It’s simply not fair, you know? I’m as capable as any of them, and yet I’ve been pushed to the sidelines. Doesn’t matter how shiny my new title. Did you see the tongue lashing I received in the latest edition of the Prophet?”

Neville gave a non-committal grunt. 

“Of course it was good to finally clear Sirius's name. And we did find out who actually killed Karkaroff. Not that this case made a whole lot of difference. But the sheer mass of those cases – it’s like I pick my next one at random. And for every case I pick, there are tons of others left without investigation. An intriguing death here, an unusual contact there, or a familiar name. It’s becoming increasingly harder to justify what I do to the public. And to myself.”

“Maybe I can help you with that.” Neville coughed into his elbow. “I was wondering, Harry, if ... the Prophet and public opinion aside ... if you’re allowed to pick your own cases now.” His hands tightened around the mug.

Harry snorted and took another sip of his ale. “You sound like you have something particular on your mind.”

“Did you ever come across the case of a Sarah Longbottom?”

Harry shook his head. “Longbottom? Really? Related to you?”

“She’s my Uncle Algie’s daughter.”

“The one who hung you out of a window?” Harry chuckled.

Neville winced. “The same. Sarah's been attacked as a child, about the time when Voldemort and his lot ran the show. Been in St Mungo’s ever since, and no one ever found out what happened.”

Harry dropped the humour, fast. “That’s ... that’s awful. A child attacked and no culprit found.”

“Exactly. And I thought that ... well ... I could at least ask you ... That is, if you are to pick your own cases now.”

“That’s actually the one thing they let me do.”

“Uncle Algie and Aunt Enid never got over it. They still visit her every week. It would mean the world to them if you could find out what happened to Sarah.”

***

Back at the Ministry, Harry picked up a fresh carton box on his way to the archive in the dungeons. According to Neville, the evidence in the Sarah Longbottom case had been scarce. Very likely, there was no need to bring a trolley.

He shouldn't have bothered to even bring a box. When Harry finally found the file, his hands and robes dusty from digging through the boxes of parchment and magical items collected over the ages, it was nothing more than a disappointingly thin folder. Purple. An assault case. Not wanting to get any more dust on it, he resisted the urge to open it right away and rode the elevator back to Level Two. While he passed the Auror offices, he noticed they were deserted. A buzzing noise came from one of the meeting rooms. So they were busy discussing the hows and whys of the Leach case again.

No need to socialise and show his face then. He could just as well take the file outside of the DMLE and have a coffee around the corner. At least it tasted a lot better than the crap they brewed down in the cafeteria.

Harry had just settled with a triple caramel cappuccino and was ready to open the folder, when a familiar voice called out his name.

“Hey Potter, fancy seeing you here.” Draco Malfoy stood in front of his table, a copy of the Financial Prophet tucked away under his arm. “Shouldn't you agonise in our fancy office over which cold case to pick next?”

Harry waved the folder at him. “Done already. And then I took my work out into the sun. No need to stay inside where everybody is just busy giving each other a pat on the back for how great they are.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “Jealous? Who'd have thought the famous Harry Potter would fall so low.”

“It's easy for you to say that.” Harry glared at Malfoy.

“Why? Because I couldn't possibly fall any lower?”

“What? No. That's not what I was saying. I just...” Harry waved his hands around in frustration. “I want to make a difference. Not just kicking up the dust of cases no one cares about. And being given shit for it by the Prophet.”

“He wants to make a difference.” Malfoy turned his face towards heaven. Then he looked back at Harry. “Honestly, Potter, you are making a difference. What about clearing the name of Sirius Black? That was important, wasn't it? We found Helena Malfoy and solved the murder of Igor Karkaroff - we made a difference there, too. Right? So why don't you offer me a seat at your table and we take a look at this measly folder of a case file.”

For a moment, Harry wanted to dismiss Malfoy's little speech as the words of someone who was just too full of himself. But if he wanted to be fair, Malfoy had a point. He gestured to one of the free chairs at his table. “Be my guest.”

“Oh darling, I thought you'd never ask!” With an exaggerated wave towards the waiter, Malfoy ordered _Darjeeling, please_. He threw one look at Harry's cappuccino and declared Harry a plebeian for drinking a brew made of more than two ingredients. 

And then, they both bowed over the file to study its contents.

In 1997, Sarah Longbottom, age nine, daughter of Algie and Enid Longbottom, had been found catatonic in the garden behind their home. Closer investigation revealed that she had scratches and bruises all over her limbs and face, like she had been running through shrubbery in panic. Before her accident, Sarah had never expressed any signs of magic. Algie's involvement in bouncing his eight year-old nephew Neville in 1988 to force out his first signs of magic had been mentioned to the investigators, and for several weeks, Sarah's parents became suspects in the case of their own daughter. Algie was even questioned under Veritaserum and protested his innocence. In the end, the Aurors handling the case concluded that, had Algie truly decided to bounce Sarah from the second floor of the family home, she couldn't have survived the fall. Her parents were cleared, but the true attacker was never found.

“This is vile,” Malfoy said. 

Harry nodded. "They closed the case a year after the attack. With so many Death Eaters on the run, no one found the time to chase after a phantom.”

Malfoy's face showed no reaction. He turned around another sheet of parchment. “It says here she was admitted to St Mungo's. Do you think she's still there?”

Harry shrugged. “Why wouldn't she? Unless she died, she'll still need the kind of care that can't be provided by her parents.”

Malfoy picked up his cup, threw one disgusted look at the cold tea and put the cup back on the saucer. “Well, then, what are we waiting for? We should go and take a look at her, talk to the Healers. See what we can find out before we pay a visit to her parents.”

***

Sarah Longbottom was a silent eighteen-year-old on a bed at the fourth floor of St Mungo's. She had the same light-brown hair colour as her cousin. But where Neville Longbottom's features were still round, Sarah's face looked almost gaunt.

“It's not easy to keep her fed,” the Healer said with a look into Potter's anguished face. 

Draco wanted to curse. He'd suspected that Potter wouldn't deal well with meeting a victim that was helpless and still suffering. In spite of Potter's overall professionalism, he would get too close and personal and involved. And it was even worse with Sarah here, a young woman related to one of his friends, wasting away in a state that was neither life nor death. It was a marvel, to be honest, how Potter could still be that compassionate, after losing his parents and fighting a war. Yes, he once had held the attention of the wizarding world. But he wasn't Dumbledore's pampered boy any longer. These days, he was nothing but a grunt in the belly of the Ministry, and his means were limited by the length of his leash. Potter on a leash... Now that was a more uplifting thought.

“Malfoy?” 

Draco was startled out of his musings to find Potter glaring at him. 

“I wonder what's so funny about this case...”

Draco quickly schooled his features into an expression of earnest concern. “Sorry, I got distracted.”

The Healer cleared her throat. “You've seen the patient. Is there anything else I can do for you?” The look she gave them down her nose said that she hoped not.

Potter shook his head. “No, thank you. You've been very kind.”

Her expression softened a bit. “I hope you will be able to shed some light on this case. Maybe even find who did this to her.”

Not that the medical staff had been any help in narrowing down what _this_ meant exactly. Sarah was unresponsive, but her medical file offered all kinds of suggestions about the source of her ongoing predicament, and not one could be ruled out completely. 

They left the room together, and the Healer lingered, obviously uncertain about how much longer she was required to accompany them. 

Draco gave her a quick smile. “Thank you for your time. We'll see ourselves out.”

“Could you've been any more impolite?” Potter hissed as soon as the Healer had vanished around the corner. 

“I wasn't being impolite, Potter. I only didn't slobber over her like a Crup begging for a stick to be thrown. It's called acting like a professional.”

“You... you wouldn't know professional when it danced naked in front of you.”

“Naked? Who said anything about being naked?” A tall good-looking man with brown hair grinned at them from where he'd just stepped out from another room.

Definitely shagable, despite the ugly lab gear he wore - those protective goggles were the kind Draco only put on when things were about to explode, not as a fancy head wear. But a guy who threw a quick innuendo at strangers - Draco would have to add this one to his list of potential dates. He and Benjy were going out, but that didn't mean they were exclusive. If there was one thing Draco couldn't stand, it was a clingy bloke.

“Hey, gorgeous. Do we know each other? What are you doing in a place like this?”

“Malfoy!” Potter hissed, elbowing him in the ribs. “Don't you recognise Roger Davies?”

Davies. Davies. Davies, who was currently curling the left corner of his upper lip into a sneer. Oh... that Davies. “You captained the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. And you took that French half-Veela to the Yule Ball, right?”

Davies lost the sneer and stroked his chin, looking pleased. “Fleur Delacour, yes. Quite the catch, eh? Almost all of the boys were smitten with her.” He threw a sideways glance in Draco's direction. “She married the oldest of the Weasley blokes, right?” he asked, nodding towards Potter. “What are you two doing here anyway? Your families are all right, I hope?”

If the speed with which Davies turned the conversation to marriage and families was any indication, he probably wasn't a very good candidate for Draco’s list. Just a general joker, then, who enjoyed tuning in on awkward conversations about dancing naked. Draco shrugged inwardly. Davies’s loss, really.

“We’re good, Roger. Just visiting on a case. You look like you're working here, am I right?”

Now, look at Potter. Always trying to improve his conversational skills. Davies seemed to like it, though. He was practically preening.

“Why, yes, I do. I'm leading a team of researchers for St Mungo's. We collaborate quite closely with the Ministry, in fact. I can't really talk about it - I'm sure you know how it is, Potter, being one of the youngest Aurors in history.”

And wasn't it interesting how he excluded Draco from the conversation? 

Potter babbled on about how he and Davies both were making the world a better place by saving kittens from treetops. This was really getting boring.

Draco made a show of looking at his pocket watch. “Oh, look, is it that late already? Potter, can you afford such a long break from work? Davies, it was fun, but we should dash.”

Davies held up his hands. “I wouldn't want to come between you and your work. See you around - maybe we could go to a pub and catch up on old times.”

Potter nodded. “I'd like that.”

“It's a deal, then.” Davies turned around and strode away. 

What a twat. Well, at least he had a nice arse. 

“Now, what? Is there still time enough to go and see Sarah's parents?”

They'd Apparated back into their office. Potter was clutching the folder with Sarah's case as if his life depended on it. 

“We should wait until tomorrow. I'd like to make a call before we drop in on them and announce our visit. Don't want to barge in on them all of a sudden.”

Draco nodded. “That makes sense.” 

“I may also call Neville. Ask what he knows.”

“You think the parents won't tell us everything?”

“No. But... you know how it is. Families talk all the time, and he might have heard something that gives us a different perspective on the case.”

Families talked all the time - that was probably the case if one grew up among Weasleys. Draco held his tongue. His comment likely sounded wittier in his head and would probably rile up Potter too much. Teasing him was fun, at times. But not at the cost of their work. Draco took pride in his hard-won expertise and professionalism. A mere joke wasn't enough to risk the burgeoning work-relationship he had with Potter.

“Malfoy? Have you fallen asleep? No Weasley joke?”

Draco only cocked an eyebrow. “Why bother when you can think them up all on your own.”

Potter grinned. “True enough. I'll owl you the time for our appointment with the Longbottoms then.”

***

The door of the small Longbottom cottage was closed, and all their knocking didn’t open it. Harry let his hand sink.

“Are you sure you made an appointment, Potter? This house looks like its owners have gone on a very long holiday, if you take my meaning.”

Leave it to Malfoy to rub in the obvious. “Of course I’m sure. I talked to Algie Longbottom and he told me to come for tea. Around three, he said. And don’t try to tell me tea is taken at five in the afternoon. Some people like to take it earlier, you know.”

Malfoy raised his hands in an appeasing gesture. “I didn’t say anything.”

“But you were about to, don’t deny it.”

Malfoy opened his mouth and closed it quickly when the door in front of them was opened slightly. A harassed-looking wizard peered through the gap. “Auror Potter?”

“The same.” Harry, suddenly self-conscious, tried to flatten his hair. “Algie Longbottom?”

„Yes.” The man eyed Malfoy. “You didn’t say you’d bring someone else.”

“This is Draco Malfoy. He is an Unspeakable and has been working with me as a research specialist on several cold cases.”

Longbottom moved an inch forward, effectively sealing the gap between door and frame with his body. “About that... I can’t allow you in.”

“Mr Longbottom, we want to find the people who attacked your daughter. Yesterday, you agreed to talk to me. Don’t you want us to help?”

Longbottom shook his head, then shrugged. He moved his weight from the left foot to the right and back again to the left. “Yes. I suppose. But... I don’t know.” He sighed. “It’s complicated.”

“Would you care to explain?” Malfoy’s voice was insistent, but at least a little warm. 

Longbottom quickly stepped onto the front stairs, leaving the door behind him slightly ajar. “It’s about my wife, Enid. She’s been through enough.”

“I understand.” Harry nodded. Every new investigation would stir up the couple’s hopes again. 

“No, Mr Potter, you don’t. This is not just about getting her hopes up. Do you know how much it upset her that we were both suspects to have attacked our own daughter? After I agreed to this meeting, I could think about nothing else. And I can’t put her through this again.”

“It’s different this time. You’re not a suspect. We’re merely trying to find out what happened,” Malfoy said.

“I can’t. Please, stop bothering us. I don’t even know why the case has been re-opened anyway. We certainly didn’t make a request.” Longbottom turned around and put one hand on the doorknob. “You’re wasting your time, Auror Potter.”

Harry’s heart sank, . Another case that would stay unresolved. Another crime that would be go unpunished. He only wanted to help, but he didn’t know how to reach this man. 

Longbottom was almost through the door, when a soft voice spoke from inside the house. “Algie, don’t. I’ll do it. I’ll talk to Mr Potter.”

“Mrs Longbottom?” Harry held his breath. 

A small woman gently placed her hand on Algie’s elbow. He stepped aside and made room for her. Her blonde hair hung lankly around her face as if styling it was too much of a bother. Her eyes were the saddest eyes Harry had ever seen, tired and worn from crying too much. He immediately felt a pang of compassion towards her.

“Hello, Mrs Longbottom.” He reached out and shook her hand, which was cool to the touch.

“Please, call me Enid. You aren’t like the other Aurors, the ones that came to our home to blame us for what happened to Sarah. I’ll talk to you, Mr Potter. I haven’t forgotten what you did for us. You fought bravely in the war, and I trust that you honestly want to take care of my Sarah. But he,” she pointed at Malfoy, “stays where he is. I’m not going to let a former Death Eater into my house.” The sadness in her eyes had changed to steel. 

Harry turned towards Malfoy, expecting an explosion. Malfoy had gone white but for two pink dots high on his cheeks. He took one step backwards, away from Harry and the Longbottoms.

“It’s all right, Potter. I’m leaving. You do what you came to do. Just give me a call once you’re done, and we’ll talk.”

His voice was carefully controlled, but Harry couldn’t stop wondering. So many people still couldn’t see beyond what had happened during the war, and they attacked at the most unexpected moments. No matter how cocky his attitude and how great his reputation as a researcher, it couldn’t be easy for Malfoy. 

Inside the house, Enid led Harry into the living room. Tea sat on a little heater on the table, and there were biscuits on a plate. The table was decked with three sets of dishes, and Harry sat down in the armchair he was shown. Enid took the sofa, while Algie took the second armchair across from Harry. He poured them all tea and settled with his cup, a watchful observer.

“Thank you, Enid, for talking to me. And please, both of you, call me Harry.” At her nod, Harry continued. “I’ve read the file and your testimony. I’d still like to hear it again from your perspective, if it’s not too much.”

Enid fumbled a handkerchief out of the pocket of her dress, dabbed her eyes with it and said nothing.

“But maybe we could start with Sarah. What kind of child was she? What did she like best?”

Enid sat a little straighter. “Thank you, Harry. It’s ... talking about her accident is hard. I’d rather talk about her, about the child she was before.” She paused for a moment, obviously collecting her thoughts. “Sarah ... she loved nature. She loved being outside. She had her own little corner in the garden where she grew flowers and herbs. It runs in the family; most Longbottoms have green fingers.” She gave a weak laugh. “I tried to interest her in edible plants, but for her, it was all about flowers. I used to say to Algie that she might become a Herbology teacher one day.” At this, Enid paused again and dabbed at her eyes. “Of course, that was before ... before I was certain she was a Squib.” A sob escaped her throat, and she shook her head.

Algie stood and sat beside her on the sofa to gently stroke her back. “You don’t have to do this, love.”

“Yes, I do. If there’s one chance of finding out what happened to her, it lies with Harry. He needs to know everything.”

Harry decided that this was enough of an opening. “You mentioned Sarah might have been a Squib. Why would you think that?”

“You read the file. She was nine years old! She never showed any signs of magic. Not the slightest.”

“Couldn’t she just be a late bloomer, like your nephew Neville?”

Enid flinched. “No. She was a Squib. And it was my fault.”

“Your fault? I find that hard to believe. What could you have done to cause a lack of magic in your daughter?”

“No! Stop it!” Algie called out. “This is going too far. What Enid thinks she did or didn’t is not related to the attack on Sarah.”

“It might be. Your wife at least thinks so. Don’t you think we should hear her out?”

“Enid? Love? Do you really want to go on?”

Enid nodded. She unfolded the handkerchief and blew her nose. „You really think that knowing my guilt will help you with Sarah’s case?”

“Please, Enid. I can’t be sure unless I know.”

She took a deep breath. “I was already past the age of child-bearing when I had Sarah. Algie and I married in 1962, right after I’d left Hogwarts. But it took us more than twenty-five years to conceive a child, and when Sarah was born in 1988, I was already forty-three. It didn’t feel right. A mother shouldn’t be that old. All during my pregnancy, I worried that we had been too selfish, trying for a child when I was well into my forties. Most of my friends had had their children twenty years earlier. But my mother wasn’t young when she had me, and I tried to reassure myself. I am not the most talented witch, but I was doing okay. I never expected this to happen.”

“You can’t think that the attack on Sarah was related to your late pregnancy.”

“No. But it’s why she was a Squib. And that must have diminished her chances of recovery, don’t you agree?”

“My father’s mother was older, too, when she had him. He was the Head Boy of his year, and played Chaser for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He taught himself how to—“

Enid cut right through him. “Don’t try to tell me that I’m wrong. Your grandmother was just luckier than I was. I know what I did. A mother always knows. She knows when her child is hurt. And she knows when she’s to blame. There are no pretty words and excuses to cover up what I’ve done.”

Harry was at a loss for words. On the mantelpiece, pictures of Sarah showed her at every age. The earlier pictures showed her at various activities; she was playing in the garden, tending to her flowers, blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. The later pictures were all taken at St Mungo’s, with Sarah lying in bed, or sitting in a chair by the window, supported by her mother’s arm around her shoulders. Those later pictures could have been Muggle - so significant was the lack of movement in them.

Enid noticed Harry’s gaze. “We still take pictures on her birthday. Act as if she’s a normal, happy child.” Her eyes filled with tears.

“I’m so sorry.” Words weren’t enough to express how much. “I should probably go.”

“You do that. Please find out who attacked my child.”

Harry took her hand and shook it. “I will, Enid. I’ll try my best.”

***

When Draco didn’t find Potter in their office the next morning, he simply Apparated to the café at the corner. And there was Potter, sipping one of those horrible concoctions. Draco ordered a tea for himself, moved Potter’s papers aside in lieu of a greeting and sat down.

“I’m sorry Enid treated you like that,” Potter blurted out. Well, he never had been famous for avoiding what was uncomfortable. 

“What? Like she thinks I attacked her daughter myself? Potter, I didn’t know you were such a bleeding little heart.”

Potter’s face coloured an embarrassed red. “I just wanted to say ... it can’t have been easy for you.”

Draco shrugged. “Yeah, well ... Some people will never change. And they think the same of me.” He cleared his throat. “Now to more important matters: What did she tell you?”

Potter launched into his retelling of Mrs Longbottom’s testimony so fast that Draco thought he must have been quite glad to change the subject. Not that Draco was keen to discuss his role in the war with the most famous figure-head of the victorious side, either. 

A sudden hooting startled both of them out of their conversation. A small brown Ministry owl landed on the free chair at their table. It held an office memo out to Potter. 

“Fan post?” Draco quirked an eyebrow, while Potter took the memo from the owl. It hooted again, much softer, and waited.

Potter scanned the memo and shook his head. “No. It looks like Algie Longbottom just Apparated into my old cubicle, looking for me. Great. I’ll never live that one down.” He scribbled an answer on the back of the memo and attached it to the owl’s leg. “Sorry, I have no owl treats.” His gaze brushed the biscuit that lay forgotten on Draco’s saucer. “May I? You never eat them anyway.”

Draco waved a hand at him. “Go on, Potter. Ruin a perfectly healthy owl with extra sugar.”

Potter took the cookie and gave it to the owl. It nibbled at Potter’s hand before taking the treat. “See, she likes it.”

“Of course she likes it. That doesn’t mean it’s good for her.”

“Health freak.”

“Sugar addict.”

They watched the owl take off, and minutes later Algie Longbottom Apparated to the entrance of the café. He walked over to their table in quick strides.

“Thank you, Mr Potter, for seeing me on such short notice. I didn’t know how else to reach you.”

“It’s Harry, remember?” Potter shook Longbottom’s hand. “Don’t worry about interrupting. You wrote you had some information?”

“I’d like to add to my wife’s testimony.”

“Please, take a seat.”

Potter fixed his gaze on Longbottom’s face to show him that he was listening. Draco tried not to make a noise, just in case Longbottom remembered that he didn’t like talking to former Death Eaters.

“Enid told you about Sarah, how she thinks she’s a Squib. She’s wrong. My little girl, she isn’t a Squib. She’s a late bloomer, just like Neville.”

“And why would you think that?”

Longbottom leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “I have no proof, but I think I’ve seen signs of magic from Sarah, once or twice when we visited her at St Mungo’s. Whatever trauma she’s been through, it stopped her magic. That aside, she would have been a fine witch. My wife’s not to blame. A mother’s age has no influence on the magical ability of the child.”

“Why not tell Enid?” Potter’s voice was full of concern. “Why let her suffer all the self-blame when you were sure that her age wasn’t the cause for the complications in Sarah’s recovery?”

“I can’t. I can’t stir up more pain than Enid’s already been through. First, I tried to convince her. Don’t you think I tried? Of course I did. But I have no proof. And me arguing upset her even more. Sometimes I think she can’t bear the hope. She just can’t.” Algie wiped at his eyes. “And that’s why I let it go. But I’m sure – Sarah has magic.”

***

When Draco opened the office door the next morning at seven, Potter was already at his desk. He looked like he hadn't slept at all.

“Last night, I went down into the archives and did some more digging, and look what I found. Three more cases similar to Sarah's. All of them unsolved, just like hers.” Potter was excited enough to jump right into the case. “Oh, and by the way, I also talked to Neville. He didn’t have anything to add about his aunt and uncle, so that’s a dead end.”

“Last night? You went down into the archives after we came back from the Longbottoms? Do you ever do something other than work?”

Potter waved three more folders at Draco, one black and two purple. There was still dust in his hair – a little more personal hygiene would add so much to his appearance. But he had probably slept right here at his desk. Draco resisted the urge to wipe away a thick black streak from behind Potter's left ear.

“Three more? And they are similar how?”

“Some element of Sarah's case can be found in each of the others. The year they were found, the age, their lack of magic. But they don't share a lot of similarities, either with Sarah's or with each other. It's all just bits and pieces. Here, have a look.” Potter opened one of the purple folders. “Cedwic Filch, found in 1997, the same year as Sarah. Age seven. He died half a year later in St Mungo's. Difficult nourishment conditions, it says here.” Potter glared at the pages, turning them. “Difficult, my arse. And before you ask me, yes, he's a distant nephew of Filch.”

“Was he a Squib, too?”

“The papers don't say. He never showed any sign of magic until his accident.”

Draco made a non-committal noise for Potter to continue.

“The second is one Joanne Midget, age eleven. Her case is the most recent, set in 2001. She showed erratic signs of magic, but didn't receive a letter from Hogwarts. She survived the attack. In July 2002, her parents moved to the US and took her with them.”

Draco took the other purple folder and retrieved a parchment with a Ministry stamp on it. “Here’s a note that says they claimed their daughter had been attacked while they visited Hogsmeade on a family trip.” He handed the parchment to Potter, and two pictures slid to the ground. Draco bent to retrieve them. The first showed a blonde, pig-tailed young girl in a pink dress, waving at the camera. The second showed the same girl, curled up in a corner. Her pink dress was torn, and her arms were raised protectively in front of her face. They were covered in cuts and pricks, as if she had been mugged or dragged through thorns. 

Draco swallowed hard. Potter's lips were pressed together in a tight line. 

“It says here that her injuries resisted treatment. The Healers claimed it must be her erratic magic acting against the ointments and spells they tried. Her parents filed a complaint. They had Joanne released and moved to the US hoping to get better treatment for her.” Draco knew that his voice was slightly unsteady. Those cases really took a toll on him, and Potter didn't seem to fare any better.

Potter opened the black folder. “This case here’s even earlier than Sarah's. Connor Lane, age nine, and his older sister Mary, age thirteen. Both were found dead in their parents' home, while they'd been away on a shopping trip. Mary was a student at Hogwarts. Her wand was drawn, and _Priori Incantatem_ revealed several protective spells. Connor, like Sarah and Cedwic, had shown no signs of magic until the accident.”

Draco realised he was chewing his lip. It was a bad habit, but he couldn't help it. “They were all between seven and thirteen years old. Some of them died on the spot. Some of them survived the attack. One was a Hogwarts student, one had erratic magic, and we don't really know about the others.” He dragged his hands through his hair. “This makes no sense. There is no pattern.”

Potter shook his head. “There has to be. We just don't see it. Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way. It might be possible that not all children were attacked by the same criminal. But what if the Squib cases were connected? What if someone out there was hunting children without magic?”

“But how do you explain Joanna Midget and Mary Lane? They clearly had magic. And Algie told us that he thinks Sarah is magical, too.”

“Yeah, but the attacker didn't know that.”

Suddenly Draco realised what Potter's muddled thinking was leading up to. "Potter, you are still too involved in the Opal Leach murder. The attacks on Sarah and these other children happened years ago. This is not some ongoing conspiracy against Squibs. Jacob Wilfing was a potioneer, for Merlin's sake. And Mary Lane was a Hogwarts student. She was a witch.”

“I am not saying that Opal Leach didn't get me wondering. And I _know_ our Longbottom case has nothing to do with the current murders. But Mary could have been collateral damage, got in the way while trying to defend her brother. You have to agree that it is an odd coincidence that in all these cold cases the victims were wizarding children with little or no magic.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Potter, you actually might be onto something. So, let's, at least for the moment, disregard that some of those victims had magic, and go with the idea that they were attacked because they were Squibs. Or maybe, I might add, because they had 'wrong' magic? Do I follow you?”

Potter nodded. “Go on.”

“If this is true, we have a motive. We still need a suspect and the means of the attacks. A lot of people hated Squibs at the end of the nineties.”

“Unfortunately, we have plenty of Death Eaters to choose from.” Potter's face was dark and brooding.

“Well, we can't arrest them all. I think it's time to question Sarah.”

“You want to do what? What part of 'catatonic' don't you understand, Malfoy?”

“I don't want to talk to her. I want to perform Legilimency on her, take a look into her mind. It will be similar to what I did with the Muggle witnesses on the case of Sirius Black. All we need is the permission of her parents.”

“And how exactly are you going to get that?”

“It looks like we’ll have to ask them.”

“You know that her mother hates you, right?”

Draco looked Potter in the eye and gave him his cockiest grin, the one he usually reserved for hitting on exceptionally hot blokes. “What? Are you afraid of a challenge?”

***

Despite their recent success in finding more cases that might be related to Sarah's case, Harry was done for the week. Friday night, and for once he left the office in time for a couple of quiet drinks in the Golden Hind. It was the right crowd to wind down, no one would bother him or question him about the time he wasted on dust cases. Dust cases - the Prophet had come up with the name and it had stuck. Harry hated it. It sounded uncaring and mean, like the victims of the unresolved cases were just clutter and dirt to be swept aside and thrown out. And yet he had started calling them that inside his head, too.

"What's eating you?" Thomas, the bartender, asked, placing a fresh beer in front of Harry. "Trouble at work? Missing a love life?" 

He gave Harry a wink, and Harry winked back. It meant nothing, just friendly concern from his favourite barman. "Just people being people. You know how it is."

Thomas nodded and pushed a bowl of peanuts towards Harry. "Here, have some nutrition with your ale."

"Thanks." Harry sipped his beer and occasionally picked at the nuts, scanning the crowd. 

It was the typical early Friday evening crowd, just people kicking back and switching gears. No one was too flamboyant, only that couple in one of the dimly lit booths , that made quite the spectacle of themselves. Both had a seeker-light built, and both were all tarted up. The brown-haired one, with his back to Harry, wore a pair of jeans ripped in strategically interesting places. The other, whose face was hidden in the crook of hot-trouser-guy's neck, wore a slim-fit white leather suit and a dark button down shirt with silver markings that screamed _filthy rich_ even from a distance. Though Harry had to admit that the shirt contrasted beautifully with the bloke's white-blond hair. Hair that reminded him strongly of one Draco Malfoy. But while Malfoy wasn’t above making a spectacle of himself and his lover, Harry was sure he wouldn’t indulge publicly in his usual relaxation technique while working on a case as tragic as Sarah's. Malfoy was a pleasure-seeking hedonist, but he wasn’t cold. Sarah’s fate had touched him as deeply as it had touched Harry.

Harry would have liked nothing better than to take his mind of the case for once. Torn between envy and embarrassment, he couldn't stop squinting into the darkness of the booth. The blond bloke was groping the other's arse. If the loud groans coming from his partner were any indication, he had his technique right down. The men turned slightly, and Harry could see the blond licking a glistening trail along the other's collarbone. He could also see the tell-tale pointed nose of Draco Malfoy. 

This couldn't be true. 

“Looks like you're enjoying the show." Thomas interrupted Harry's staring. Harry turned to face him and felt his face grow hot. It really was way too warm in the pub.

Thomas gave him a good-natured grin. “I can’t say I blame you. Benjy and Draco are some of the hottest blokes to look at. And they really like to show off together."

The hotness on Harry's face changed to flaming. He turned to get another look at the two. It was indeed Malfoy, and his lover, Benjy. Harry had just refused to believe what his eyes had been telling him all along. The ridiculous hair alone was a dead give-away, not to mention Williams’s trousers. Harry's brain had probably ignored all the facts because he wanted to give Malfoy the benefit of the doubt. With a case like their current one, a girl taken before her adult life had even begun, Harry doubted anyone could launch into a full make-out session, in a public bar, too, of all places. 

But Malfoy clearly was as callous as he took care to make everyone believe. It wasn't an act. Where other people had a heart, Malfoy had a stone. Or perhaps just a fat, greedy dick. 

Malfoy grabbed through the rips of Williams’s jeans, digging his fingers deep into the flesh of the man’s arse. Harry swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Then, with a twist, Malfoy turned Williams around and pulled him hard against his chest and groin. Malfoy’s hands were all over Williams, tweaking a nipple through his shirt, rubbing at the bulge in his jeans, and Williams was panting without any restraint.

Harry stood and tossed a few coins onto the bar. "I'm done for the night. Keep the change." 

So much for relaxing with a few quiet drinks.

***

Draco placed one of those frou-frou coffee abominations on the desk in front of Potter, a triple-caramel whatnot. “Here, I brought you one of those coffees you like so much.” He dumped the rest of his stuff onto one of his large boxes and didn’t bother closing the door. The room needed airing anyway. “How was your weekend?”

Potter only glared at him and continued reading the files. He didn’t even touch his coffee. Strange ... the last time they’d seen each other had been on Friday, and they’d parted amicably. Potter had actually laughed while saying goodbye. He’d said he might meet him later at the Golden Hind, but had never shown up. 

“Potter, talk to me! What’s with the stone-walling? Kneazle got your tongue?”

Potter looked up at him. “Does it matter? You didn’t need me to get through the weekend fine, did you?”

“Awww, come on, don’t hate!”

“How not, when you did everything you could to make an idiot of yourself.”

“Care to explain?” What in Salazar's name was Potter going on about?

“You and Williams certainly didn’t hesitate to have a go at it on Friday night.”

So Potter had been to the pub, after all. 

Draco shrugged. “Yeah, well, what’s it to you? And why didn’t you come over to say hello like you said you would? Was the company not good enough to satisfy your fine taste?”

“You were practically shagging him in public!”

Oh, so this was where the broom was flying. The damn hypocrite. “I wasn’t shagging him. We were getting ready for a great night out, in a gay bar, where lots of people like to get in the mood before they get their rocks off. I did nothing out of the ordinary. You’ve seen it before. You’re just blowing a fuse because it was me and Benjy.”

“You’re damn right. I’d never thought you’d be such an insensitive bastard. I thought you’d changed. But I guess I was wrong.”

“Insensitive? What’s that got to do with it?”

“Did you ever think of Sarah? Or her parents? I bet all you think of after you leave the office is how to shag your boyfriend into a mattress. Or whatever other piece of furniture you can find.”

“Oh, so this is what this is about? I was enjoying myself while on a case. And that makes me an insensitive bastard?” Draco felt his temper rise. “Get the message, Potter: Not everybody does the self-flagellating lambada you prefer to call a life. Sarah’s condition won’t improve if I make myself miserable. Our investigation won’t run any smoother if I stay celibate for the weekend.”

Potter looked utterly uncomfortable, squirming in his seat as if he wanted to make a run. If Draco hadn’t heard from Potter himself how much he was into guys, he’d taken any bet that Potter was embarrassed. But ... 

Draco narrowed his eyes and fixed Potter with a stare. “Maybe you’re jealous? Maybe going for an occasional blowjob with a Muggle doesn’t do it anymore for you? Or maybe ...”

\-- Potter was fidgeting like a first year in front of McGonagall now --

“... maybe you finally started thinking how great it might be to be out and proud.”

Potter jumped up and shut the office door so fast that the bang echoed through their office. “Shut it, Malfoy. Do you think I’m interested in the next rumour popping up? It’s bad enough as it is. They don’t have to think of me—“ He broke off, clutching the edge of the desk with white-knuckled fists.

“Think what, Potter? That you’re into blokes? Don’t you know that hiding from girls in a gay pub will do that to your reputation?”

“No one knows for sure. And they can’t know. Skeeter dragged my entire childhood through the dirt. Can you imagine what she would do with information like that? I’m not willing to go through such a shitstorm again.”

Draco whistled. “Harry Potter, the Golden Boy of the wizarding world, a coward. Who would have thought?”

“Shut you fucking mouth.” Potter slashed his hand through the air in one quick motion. 

“You don’t get it, do you? You can’t hide forever, unless you never want to be happy and in love. You're Harry Potter. There is no way you’ll ever be with a guy and not come out to the public. You still have their attention, no matter what you do. Forget about Dawlish. You’re still a hero to a lot of people. Just think about Enid Longbottom.” Draco’s voice grew louder with every sentence. “You have the power to convince them, make them reconsider their prejudices. But instead of being out, you hide behind the image of a teenager who was too busy fighting for his life to even consider that he was oogling other blokes.” 

“I was with Ginny, don’t you forget that.”

Draco shrugged. “That was years ago. So you’re bisexual then. Who cares? And when was the last time you touched a woman, anyway?”

Potter said nothing.

“Yeah. I thought so.”

Potter sputtered. “You’re not helping.”

Potter was probably the worst kind of closet-case Draco had ever met, but Draco knew he had to keep nudging him. No matter how insensitive Potter thought him to be, Draco knew a thing or two himself about the fears of coming out. 

“It’s all right, Potter. I get it. And I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“Just stop pushing me.” Potter stood with his back to the door, tense like a deer poised to take a flight. 

“You can run now, but don’t forget that we are meeting the Longbottoms this afternoon.”

The door closed behind Potter with a bang. 

Draco threw a look at the untouched coffee on the table. The foam had shrunk into itself and a sickly sweet aroma wafted through the small room. 

What a basket case.

***

Potter showed up at three in front of the Longbottoms’ cottage. His shoulders were drawn together and his whole back looked tense, but he nodded towards Draco in what resembled an actual greeting and then raised his hand to knock on the door.

Algie opened. “Harry. Mr Malfoy. You said you needed to talk to us again. What is it?”

“May we come inside? And it’s important that you talk to both of us this time, since Mr Malfoy is the one who will explain what we would like to do.”

Mrs Longbottom had silently come to the door. Her face betrayed no emotion. “If you must ...” She stepped aside, motioning for them to follow her. Algie gave her an astonished look but stayed silent. She led them to the living room and offered them a seat, but no tea. 

They had agreed that Potter should take the lead and then hand over to Draco when the couple had been warmed up to what they were about to suggest.

“Enid. Algie.” Potter coughed, and then leaned forward in his seat. “While we were investigating Sarah’s case, we found more cases like hers. Similar in some aspects, but not in others. Nevertheless, we’ve come to suspect that someone has been hunting children whose magic was developing differently, or who didn’t have any magic.”

Mrs Longbottom nodded slowly. “Go on, Harry.”

“To find out more about the profile of a possible perpetrator, it would help us a great deal if we could examine Sarah more directly. We were hoping for your consent to perform Legilimency on her.”

Algie almost bolted out of his armchair. “This is outrageous! How dare you!”

Mrs Longbottom placed a hand on his arm. “Wait, love. Hear him out.”

Potter waited until Algie had settled down. „We’d like to perform Legilimency on Sarah hoping to retrieve her last conscious memory and shed a light on her attacker.”

Mrs Longbottom gasped, but quickly caught herself. “And that would be possible? The Healers never mentioned Legilimency could be done with someone in her state.”

“This is where Mr Malfoy’s expertise comes into play.”

Her eyes widened, but she still refused to look at Draco directly.

Draco took his cue from Potter and cleared his throat. “I’ve studied various advanced magical methods concerning the mind, among the a more refined method of Legilimency.” He waited until she finally made eye contact with him. “Legilimency under normal circumstances, with a person who is awake and fully conscious, will result in not just a flood of images, but also in the person’s reaction to the intrusion. They might want to hide some of their thoughts and memories, and so they push others at the forefront of their minds. If someone is very advanced at this kind of self-protection from Legilimency, we call them an Occlumens.”

Mrs Longbottom smiled, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know already, Mr Malfoy.”

“The more the person under Legilimency is in a state where they can’t control their conscious thoughts, like when they are very drowsy or under the influence of certain potions, the less organised their minds become. Images will most certainly flood the Legilimens as soon as he gains access. Therefore, the Legilimens risks losing his sense of direction under the onslaught of images, especially when he’s looking for a specific thought or memory. The person under the spell is never at any risk.” Draco made a pause, but when neither one of the Longbottoms came forth with a question, he continued. “Wizards and witches studying Legilimency have continued pushing the boundaries of the spell and developing methods for the Legilimens to stay grounded while under performance.” He leaned forward in his seat. “If you let me, I could try to retrieve Sarah’s last memory and see what she saw when she was attacked.”

No one said a word. Algie was kneading his hands in his lap, watching his wife. Mrs Longbottom stared into space, biting her lip. Finally, she set her eyes back on Draco. “And you, Mr Malfoy, would risk performing this spell out of the goodness of your heart?”

Honesty was the only way to win her over. And she would never believe him if he didn’t give her a more complex reason. 

“Not entirely. As far as I know, no one has ever tried to perform it on a person who’s been catatonic for such a long time. I certainly welcome the challenge. But I also want to help and find out what happened to your daughter.”

“Mr Malfoy is the best and most capable man for the job,” Potter declared. He leaned forward. “You might finally know what happened to Sarah. You could find closure.”

“And it wouldn’t harm her? She wouldn’t have to relive the trauma?” asked Algie.

Draco shook his head. “According to the Healers, her conscious mind is gone. It would be only me, sifting through whatever memories still float in her subconscious.”

“But even then you would need luck to find the right one and to make any sense of it.” Mrs Longbottom’s tone was sharp and interrogating.

“This is true. But I expect the memory to be accompanied by feelings of great fear and distress. Her emotions would be my compass. I’d feel them, too.”

This time, the small smile that played around Mrs Longbottom's lips reached her eyes. Draco had to suppress a shiver. “If we give our consent, you’ll have to agree to reveal everything you find out to us first. Only then, after we give our consent that you may use your findings, will you be allowed to include them in your official investigation.”

Potter uttered a noise of protest, but Draco cut through it. “I understand.” He stared at Potter and silently begged him to play along. This woman would never give up the shreds of control she had over her daughter’s life. “I think we can agree to that.”

Mrs Longbottom looked at her husband, then back to Potter and Draco. “You have our consent. We visit Sarah every Wednesday. It might be best if you accompany us to not alert the Healers.”

Potter shook his head. “No. We’re not doing this like criminals. This is a Ministry investigation, and I’m not going to sneak into St Mungo’s and put Mr Malfoy’s reputation at risk.”

That damned little smile again. “As you wish, Harry. If you believe there’s anything still to risk of Mr Malfoy's reputation. In that case, my husband will inform the Healers of our consent.”

“This is very kind of you. But if you just sign this form here, we’re good. We’ll owl it to the Healer in charge, with the time and date of the investigation, so that they can prepare Sarah.”

“Then we will meet on Wednesday at ten at St Mungo’s.”

“Ten is too early.”

Everybody looked at Draco.

“The procedure is quite exhausting and I’m going to need more time to prepare. 2 p.m. would be ideal.”

“We can do that, can’t we, love?” Algie asked his wife. “We will visit Sarah in the morning and then wait for Harry and Mr Malfoy.”

Mrs Longbottom nodded. Then she signed the form.

***

Harry arrived at Malfoy's flat two hours before they were to meet with the Longbottom family. Malfoy had packed a ton of equipment.

Harry felt queasy. At the sight of Malfoy’s stuff, he realised that he’d never given any thought to what performing Legilimency might demand from Malfoy.

"Why are you so green around the gills? It's not anything you ate, Potter? I would hate you to ruin my carpets. Some of them are family heirlooms."

Harry shook his head. "No. I'm just surprised that you need so many things to perform a spell."

"I'm not just performing a spell. I'm conducting a scientific experiment which I'd like to document." Malfoy snorted, grabbed a box and pressed it into Harry's arms. "Here, hold that, will you? I'm almost done."

The box held a variety of parchments, quills, and a big spell book. With a triumphant crow, Malfoy retrieved a dark cloth from a rack. "I knew I'd have it somewhere."

Harry eyed the cloth. "What do you need this for?"

"Blackcurrant. It's the perfect colour. It'll make for a great contrast in front of the camera."

Harry didn't resist the impulse to roll his eyes. He was about to thrust the box back into Malfoy's arm - the lazy git could carry his stuff himself, after all - when Malfoy suddenly froze to look Harry right in the eye.

"Before we Apparate ..." Malfoy cleared his throat. "I'd like to say something about the other day."

Oh no. Now Malfoy would tell Harry how shitty he'd been about Malfoy and Williams practically shagging in the booth at the Golden Hind. Harry knew about his tendency to lose joy and sleep over his cases, and how he expected the same from others. But then again, he'd never begrudged Ron and Hermione their couple time. If he was completely honest with himself, he hadn’t lost his shit over Malfoy enjoying himself. The truth was he couldn’t stand the thought of Malfoy touching Williams, with his greedy moans and eagerly reacting body. So fucking compliant.

“Potter? Are you with me?” 

Harry focused and found Malfoy looking at him, his brows furrowed. “Sorry. I was ... distracted. I’m sorry. You wanted to say something.”

“Backing me up against Enid and telling her that I was the best man for the job. That was pretty decent of you, Potter. You didn't let your personal opinion of me get in the way of the case. I always admire a professional."

The praise stung. Malfoy obviously still thought that Harry hated his supposed lack of morals. "I want what’s best for Sarah, and that's you. By the way, you aren't half bad, Malfoy."

Malfoy made this little motion with his head, like a cat listening to a mouse running through the grass. He always did that when something caught him by surprise. "Not half bad, eh Potter?" 

"You showed some real compassion for Sarah. And for her parents, too, in spite of Enid's ... hostility."

"Aww, Potter. You sap. You're not so bad yourself." And then, Malfoy smiled.

It was a beautiful, almost inviting smile. A smile that made Harry stupid enough to want to talk. "Nope, Malfoy, not by a long stretch. So tell me, why do you do it, really? Why help Sarah?"

"You mean, aside from the scientific honour it will bring me?" Malfoy shrugged. "I guess it's ... it's the right thing to do." 

"The right thing?"

Malfoy was fumbling with the hem of the cloth he was still holding. And if Harry had been certain about one thing concerning Malfoy, it was that he never, ever fumbled. 

"She got attacked because someone most certainly tried to get rid of Squibs, right?"

Harry nodded. "So far, this is our hypothesis."

Malfoy coughed. "The way I see it ... in the war ... enough happened to all kinds of people. You know ... Squibs, Muggles ... Muggle-borns." He coughed again. "And I ... and my family ... we weren't exactly innocent." He stared into space, as if afraid to meet Harry's eyes. "So once I started thinking, I mean, really thinking, how it had all come to happen. And I thought I should ... do something about it. You know? About my role in the war, and all that." He fell silent. The tips of his ears were flaming red.

"Are you telling me that you try to atone for what you did during the war?" 

Malfoy shrugged. "Something like that, yes."

"But you were ... just a boy. They closed your case. Hell, they even closed your father's case."

"And what exactly does that prove? It's worth nothing, as long as I don't adapt ... change ... whatever you call it." Malfoy tore the box out of Harry's arms. "It's my responsibility, and if I can help clear up one case or another, this is what I'm going to do." With a bang he was gone.

Really not half bad. Quite a decent bloke, in fact. 

Harry pictured the entrance of St Mungo's and Apparated.

***

Harry didn't know how exactly, but Malfoy managed to convince the Longbottoms to wait in the visitors’ tearoom instead of watching the experiment, claiming he would perform better with the minimum amount of distraction. Once Enid and Algie were gone, Malfoy informed Harry that he wouldn't use the additional spell for Harry to share Sarah's memories, since digging through the various layers of Sarah's memory was complicated enough. He also demanded that Harry should stay in the room with him, but watch from a distance of at least eight yards. And then he made Harry draw protective runes around himself, while Malfoy drew a similar pattern around Sarah's bed.

"Under no circumstances are you allowed to touch me, Potter. You got that? No matter how scary it gets, you can't touch me. It might ruin my focus and that wouldn't be good."

Honestly, how scary could it get? Harry was sure that Malfoy’s taste for dramatic appearances was coming into play. 

"When Snape performed Legilimency on me, he never took any kind of precaution."

"Snape Legilied you? Why that?"

"It was to teach me Occlumency." Harry completed a set of protective runes on the floor. "Never mind. It didn't work."

Malfoy snorted. "Imagine that. Who thought that an open book like you would be able to shield your thoughts?"

"That would have been Dumbledore."

"Figures." Malfoy gave Harry a hard look. "Occlumency? To shield you from _him_ , I suppose. Fifth year, yes? Remedial potions?"

Harry felt his face heat up. "Oh come on, mate, stop digging around in my sordid past and answer the question already. Why do you need so many precautions?"

"Did you listen to anything at all of what I told the Longbottoms? This is about my protection a lot more than it's about Sarah's. No distraction, no contact from the outside world. I will have to use her heartbeat to navigate. And–"

"But wouldn't an outside contact make it easier for you to find your way back?"

Malfoy had the nerve to leer. "I'll already be touching Sarah to strengthen the connection between us. An outside touch to pull me back would counter that. Sudden touches might confuse my focus. A year ago, Springfield et al. published a hypothetical paper in which they claimed that any kind of grounding focus would work only if the Legilimens and the person touching them were bonded partners. And that's very much not an option between the two of us, is it?" He flicked his tongue over his lips. "Relax, Potter. I'm not hitting on you. Your virtue is safe with me. Are you done with the runes? Good. Let me see ..." He clucked his tongue. "That'll do. So let's get this show on the road." 

Harry took his place on a chair by the door. The Healers had been instructed to clear the entire floor of visitors to keep anyone from wandering in by accident. 

Malfoy set the alarm clock for five minutes. Then he sat on the side of Sarah's bed and took her right hand gently into his left. With his other hand, he aimed his wand at her temple.

"Legilimens."

The command sounded nothing like the attacks Snape had flung against Harry. It was more like a whispered suggestion to give up your darkest secrets, so gentle and seductive that Harry almost gasped from hearing Malfoy's voice alone. 

The expression on Malfoy's face was one of deep focus and concentration, like someone intend on recalling an important event in their own life. But the complete lack of emotions made it a disturbing sight. Was Sarah's existence lacking all emotions? Or was Malfoy simply too focused on sifting through her memories in search of the scariest?

Harry found that he was digging his fingers so deeply into his palms that it hurt. Huh. So well, he obviously was excited for what they might find. He stared at the half-moons in his flesh for a brief moment and then firmly placed each hand on one knee.

A shrill from the alarm clock and a consecutive gasp from Malfoy drew his attention back to the bed. "And? What did you see?"

Malfoy raised a hand to stop Harry from questioning him. "Give a man a moment to recover." He drew a deep breath. "There's nothing clear in there. Just a complete jumble of images. I've seen more garden flowers in the last five minutes than I ever saw in my life. Images of her parents, and other children. Nothing scary whatsoever. It seems like her mind has helped itself insofar that she only has the most soothing images on the forefront. I’m not sure, but it could be that she’s subconsciously using her magic to do it. To find out what she saw, I'll have to dig deeper."

Harry nodded. It sounded a little unnerving, but Malfoy certainly knew what he was doing. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"You can watch the clock for me, and be ready for when I'm back. I'm going to double the time."

The first five minutes, nothing happened. But then, as Malfoy reached the seventh minute, his whole demeanour started to change. His breathing grew more laboured, and instead of looking right into Sarah's face his gaze started dancing here and there like he was dreaming with his eyes open. Around the ninth minute, he began to talk, stumbling over the words like a victim running away from a predator.

"Yes, no, yes. Yes, yes, no. No, not that one. Don't take that one. It's mine." He sobbed. "No, no, no! You can't have it!" He was clearly under stress. His voice didn't even sound like Malfoy any longer, but almost reminded Harry of a young boy. There were beads of sweat running down his face, and he was clutching Sarah's hand much tighter than in the session before.

When the alarm clock rang, Malfoy bent forward, gasping for air. He carefully released Sarah's hand and placed his wand on the bedspread. Then he stood and staggered towards the water basin in one corner of the room, where he started retching. Once he was done, he poured a glass of water for himself and drank it in long, greedy gulps.

He turned to face Harry. "You look like you're going to combust."

"Please. You're handling that part fine without any help from me. I gather that you saw something."

Malfoy nodded, then shook his head. "Yes. No. I'm not sure. I saw something, yes, but I don't believe it's related to the attack." He closed his eyes and then continued. "I saw a black dog, a Grim, and it was ripping away at everything she holds dear. The flowers, her peers, her parents. Everything. Uprooted, bleeding, dead." He shuddered, and opened his eyes. "I'm just glad that ... the upper layers ... they're still intact. The Grim - it was like a ripple in the surface caused by something even deeper. I'm almost certain it wasn't a Grim that attacked her." 

Harry rubbed his hands over his arms against the sudden chill caused by Malfoy's words. "What are you going to do?"

Malfoy took another deep breath and released it. "What do you think? I'm going in once more."

"Even if you could cause more than ripples? Remember, we promised her parents that she would come to no harm?"

Malfoy wiped his mouth. "And what makes you think I'd risk that? I won't. I'm going to double the time again. Twenty minutes, so that I can go just a little bit deeper but still have enough time for a slow retreat. I won't let that monster, whatever it is, follow me to the surface. She won't feel a thing, I promise."

"And what about you?"

Malfoy's grin was nothing but cocky. "I'll manage." 

Like the last two times, the first few minutes went by uneventfully before Malfoy reached the second stage, where his spell work was taking a physical toll on him. For several minutes, he sat, while his flickering gaze told Harry that he was hunting through Sarah's memories. Only the sweat gathering at his temples and the occasional moan told Harry that the process was anything but comfortable. Then, around the eleventh minute, Malfoy's whole body tensed up that he almost left his sitting position on the bed. He bent forward and curled in on himself.

"No. No. Please. It's... so cold." His voice dropped down to a whisper, as if he didn't dare to speak louder. "So cold. So dark." His shoulders shook, and Harry could see tears streaming down his face, while his gaze was fixed on something that had to be the memory they'd been hoping to retrieve. 

"Hands. I don't want them. Don't want them on me." Malfoy let out a long, painful moan. "No, no, no, please. Go away, go away, go, go, go away." His eyes were wide open, totally drawn in by whatever it was he was witnessing.

Though what exactly, Harry still had no idea. Someone had been holding Sarah down during the attack. But did Malfoy also manage to see their face? Harry could only hope that he would stay coherent enough to report afterwards. 

The alarm clock shrilled. If Malfoy hadn't seen enough to identify the attacker, he most certainly couldn't go back a fourth time. Any moment now he would let go of Sarah's hand and declare defeat.

Malfoy moaned again. He was still holding Sarah's hand, even though his wand had fallen from his trembling fingers.

"Black, swirling." He shivered violently. "A vortex of hunger ... I can't ... I can't." Malfoy's head tipped upwards. He turned it sideways and pressed his lips together if he was fighting an intruding kiss. He moaned weakly. "No!" Malfoy tried to pull away from Sarah, all the while clutching harder at her hand, so that he almost dragged her across the bed. It was like he couldn't let go of her, no matter how much he wanted to get away from her memory.

The alarm had not stopped the spell this time. 

It was excruciating to watch Malfoy's agony. Yes, he had insisted that Harry shouldn't interfere. But Harry couldn't just sit and do nothing, could he? He had to help somehow. Harry stood and carefully stepped over his circle of runes. He approached the bed and stepped into the other circle, while making sure not to touch Malfoy. Instead, very gently, he began stroking Sarah, soothingly, like a mother would a feverish child. He started with her hair and continued, caressing her face, and, finally, her arms.

Sarah sighed and gave a reflexive stir that pushed her hand into Malfoy's tight grip. And that bit of a nudge, thankfully, pulled Malfoy back.

His gaze cleared up. He first looked at Sarah, then his eyes found Harry's. His face was shiny with sweat and tears. Blood was running down his chin from where he'd bitten his lip. The expression on his face was of someone who'd just seen his own death. His lips parted, but all he managed was a cough. He swallowed, a dry click in his throat, and then tried again.

"Nev- never ... seen one ... so close." 

Malfoy slumped forward, and all Harry could do was to catch him before he hit the ground.

***

"You fainted."

"I didn't faint. I passed out. In a very manly way." Malfoy sipped the hot chocolate Harry had brought him and made a face. He looked as haughty as his father on his best days, and Harry had to fight a grin.

"More like a damsel in distress, I'd say."

"Suit yourself. I found us a clue, didn't I? That should justify a little passing out."

"Yep, that you did." And damn, it had been a bloody brilliant clue. When Malfoy had come to and Harry had handed him a glass of water which he downed, he had been able to confirm Harry's suspicion about the scene Harry had witnessed.

"And you are absolutely sure, Malfoy?"

"I saw a Dementor." He shuddered. "I still remember them from when they guarded Hogwarts. Though I'd never thought I'd feel one so close."

"It certainly looked a lot like one from the outside, too. And I'm pretty sure who sent it."

Malfoy gave him an expectant look.

"Umbridge. It must have been her. She sent a Dementor after me in 1995, two years before the attack on Sarah. She didn’t have a Ministry warrant. She simply thought I'd better be eliminated."

Malfoy grinned. "Remind me to send her flowers."

"You can deliver them yourself. We're paying her a visit in Azkaban."

Malfoy paled considerably. “I guess we’ll have to. But first, we need to talk to Sarah’s parents.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll handle them.”

“That, Potter, would be ever so great.”

The Longbottoms were the only people in the tearoom on the fifth floor. They stood when they saw Harry and Malfoy come through the door. 

Algie was the first to speak. “How is Sarah? What did you find?”

“She’s fine. A healer checked her vitals and confirmed that she is resting peacefully.”

“So, did you find anything?” Enid asked.

Harry nodded. “Why don’t we sit down? This might take a while.” Once they were seated again, he said, “We found evidence that Sarah has been Kissed by a Dementor.”

Enid’s face contorted into a grimace of pain. Algie drew an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned against him. 

“Kissed?” Algie asked. “But why? Why would someone send a Dementor after a little girl?”

“We strongly suspect that it had been someone who wanted to get rid of people they thought had no magic.”

Enid sat upright, facing Harry. “So it’s true? She has no magic?”

“About that ...” Harry began, and was interrupted by Malfoy.

“She has.” Malfoy’s voice still sounded weak and unstable. 

Enid turned towards Malfoy in a hurry. “What do you mean, _she has_? She was attacked because she had no magic, wasn’t she?” Her voice was sharp as broken glass. 

“We assume the attacker thought she had not magic.” Malfoy coughed, and his whole body shook from it. “But I found signs that Sarah is using magic to protect herself from the memory of the Kiss.”

“She’s protecting herself with magic? But how ... how do you know?”

“I’ve seen images in her mind. On the upper layers, all there is are her parents, her childhood friends, and lots of flowers. Nothing scary whatsoever. It seems that her magic manifested itself insofar that she only has the most soothing images on the forefront of her mind. It took me twenty minutes to access her memory of the Kiss.”

Both Enid and Algie sat without a word. Enid’s hands were trembling in her lap, and Algie took them softly into his. 

“I haven’t seen anything like it before, haven’t read about it, either. And I can’t remember a single case where Legilimency was performed on a person who had received the Kiss. So I can’t be entirely sure, but it seems that her magic is keeping her from remembering.”

Enid held up her hand. “Theories,” she said, “they offered us nothing but theories for years.”

Malfoy pressed his lips together. His eyes looked swollen, and there was a white line of exhaustion around his mouth. “I’m sorry I can’t give you more.”

“Don’t. I’m ... I’m not finished.” Enid drew a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “They offered us nothing but theories. You ... you are the first who told us that she’s not suffering.”

“And she has magic, too,” Harry added carefully. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Enid.”

She faced him. Tears were running down her pale cheeks, but she was smiling weakly. “I’ve been living with this guilt so long ... it doesn’t really matter. But Sarah ... she’s not suffering.”

Algie was still stroking Enid’s other hand. “Our little girl. She’s using magic.” 

“And she was violently attacked, illegally, too, and under a false assumption,” Harry added. He leaned forward in his seat. “Enid, Algie? Will you give your consent for us to use the information we gained to narrow down the suspect?”

“Yes, Harry. Use it in whatever way you see fit,” Enid said, and Algie nodded his agreement. 

They all stood to say their goodbyes.

When the Longbottoms were almost at the door, Enid stopped and turned around once more to look Malfoy in the eye. “Mr Malfoy?”

“Yes, Mrs Longbottom?”

“Thank you.” 

She didn’t apologise. But from the look of gratitude on Malfoy’s face, her thanks had been enough.

***

Even without Dementors, Azkaban was as cold and unwelcoming as Draco had imagined it would be. In his youth, Azkaban had been a place so dark that parents didn't even use it to threaten their children. In all the time of his father's incarceration, Mother had never even mentioned the name, as if speaking the truth would make it worse. Father, once he was back, had been a mere shell of his former self, and they had never talked about the nightmares he'd endured behind the high prison walls.

As he and Potter walked from where they’d landed their brooms past the graveyard and towards the Azkaban entrance, Draco couldn't suppress a shudder. 

"It's a nasty place, isn't it?" Potter remarked.

"Have you ever been here before?"

"No. But ... even without the Dementors ... I hate it here."

Draco nodded. "You're right. Let's get this over with."

Dolores Umbridge was shackled hand and foot to a high iron chair in the visiting room. She looked weirdly small in her black and white striped prison uniform, like the loss of positions and privileges had shrunk her. She'd lost weight, but still held herself straight and assumed a haughty look once she realised who her visitors were. Two guards brought a small table and chairs for Potter and Draco to sit on and then left them alone.

"Mr Potter. What a surprise to see you here." She looked around the barren room and sneered. "I'd offer you tea, but you see that this place is lacking in such amenities."

"There is no need for tea or hospitality." Potter's voice was as cold as a Dementor's breath. "As far as I remember, you lack essential qualities of a good host."

"Is that so?" She smiled. "If not to my winning personality, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

"We'd like to ask you about your time as Head of the Muggle-born Registration Commission. Especially about your involvement in the case of Sarah Longbottom." Potter placed the purple folder on the table in front of Umbridge, opened it and pulled out Sarah's picture.

Umbridge gave it a fleeting look. "I've never met the child. What about her?"

"She was attacked in 1997 by a Dementor and barely escaped with her life."

"Is that so?" She cleared her throat with a little cough. "What a tragedy." 

Draco felt a chill run down his spine. Potter griped the edge of his chair so hard with his left hand that the knuckles stood white against his flesh.

"A tragedy indeed. She has been in St Mungo's ever since, for nine years. She never recovered. We think it was you who sent the Dementor for her."

Umbridge smiled. "And why, Mr Potter, would you think that? Why would I send a Dementor after an innocent child?"

"Because you thought she might be a Squib. And because you wanted to eliminate those with no or erratic magic to create the pure-blood society you believed in." Potter slammed a pink pamphlet onto the table. _Mudbloods and the Dangers They Pose to a Peaceful Pure-Blood Society._ Beneath the title was the picture of a red rose with a simpering face in the middle of its petals, being strangled by a green weed with fangs and a scowl.

"You wrote and published this trash as propaganda for the Ministry while it was controlled by Voldemort. You actively pursued Muggle-borns and took their wands away, and you gave them to the Dementors, not caring whether they would deliver the prisoners to Azkaban with their souls intact or do a little soul-sucking on the side."

Umbridge snuggled into her chair. "Is that all? All of this has been presented at my trial in great detail. I still fail to see the connection with this Sarah Longbottom. She was never tried. Why would you think I sent a Dementor after her?"

"You certainly sent one after me without any right to do so. And I know from your trial that you sent Dementors after innocent people in three more cases, under the pretence to stop them from fleeing the country."

Umbridge's laughter was sickly sweet, artificial like sugar pearls on a string. "Oh, Mr Potter, you give far too much credit to me. I was just one overworked Ministry employee and certainly had to pick my battles. Though I toast to whoever had the ingenious idea to hunt Squibs and magical retards on the side. It's an abomination to let them run free ... or even worse, procreate."

"It was you who decided that, while leading the Muggle-born Registration Commission, you could use Dementors to get rid of as many children with no magic as possible on the side? Chasing Muggle-borns from within the system wasn't enough for you, wasn't it?"

Potter's white-hot anger was enough to burn a dragon, but Umbridge only tittered. "If you know it all so well, why are you even here? You won't get a confession from me other than the ones you already have."

Potter placed his right hand on the table. Faded scars covered the back of his hand almost like a scribble. Potter traced them slowly with the fingers of his left hand. 

“We don’t need your confession. It’s just a matter of protocol to ask permission from the Wizengamot for another interrogation under Veritaserum. With the amount of evidence already against you, we’ll get that permission in no time.” 

Potter kept tracing the scars on the back of his hand. Umbridge watched him, transfixed like he was showing her a dirty secret.

"We won’t let you get away with this. Sarah's case is going to be solved, and we're going to prove you as the perpetrator.” Potter leaned back in his chair. “There’s no need to talk now.”

“You do what you have to do.” Umbridge was still smiling. And she didn't do anything to hide the truly sadistic tone of her voice. "Who is this 'we' you're talking about?" She gave another one of her high-pitched little laughs. "Not you and Mr Malfoy here." 

For the first time during the interview, she acknowledged Draco's presence with a calculating look. "You were such a promising young man. But look at you now: nothing but a lapdog to the establishment of modern age. What a shame. Does your father know how much of a lickspittle you've become? But then, he was probably the one who taught you to betray your principles at the slightest change of weather." She straightened her back and drew herself up as high as the chains around her ankles and wrists would let her. 

At her height, it should have made her look ridiculous, but Draco felt like he was going to be sick any moment. Mother had insisted that survival came first, that they had to adapt at any cost. But Father ... there were days when Lucius Malfoy still intended to go to the Ministry and strike another deal with Cornelius Fudge. It was on those days when he spread the propaganda that had cost them all so dearly.

"There will be come a time when the old and tried traditions will be honoured once more. And that time isn't far away."

Draco felt a soft pull at his sleeve. Potter. Potter with his compassionate eyes behind his ridiculous glasses. "Come, Malfoy. We've got what we came for. There's nothing more for us to get from her." 

And he let Potter guide him out of the room, outside into the cold breeze, and then side-along away from that place and memories of the past he would never be allowed to forget completely.

***

"We did it." Malfoy seemed to have recovered from their visit at Azkaban and was back to being his usually cocky self. He dumped a coffee mug on Harry's desk. "I brought you one of your frou-frou coffees to celebrate."

Harry retrieved a similar mug from out of his desk drawer. "I thought I'd repay the favour with a tea. Darjeeling. No sugar, no milk."

"Potter. I never thought you cared." Malfoy accepted the mug with a bow and a grin. He took a careful sip. "Delicious. You should try it one day. It would certainly refine your taste." He gestured towards the purple folder on Harry's desk with Sarah's name on it. "I have seen more Dementors than I would like these past few weeks. Do you think Umbridge went after Helena's parents, too?"

"Why should she? They were magical."

"I wouldn’t put it past her. If not, we still have to find whoever sent Dementors to Chrysos Hall. But hey, let's first celebrate that we solved Sarah's case." Malfoy clicked his mug against Harry's and then pointed towards Sarah's folder. "You should do the honours."

"I was just waiting for you." Harry took his wand, aimed it at the folder and muttered the appropriate incantation.

The red Ministry brand changed from "cold case" to "trial pending".

_TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK..._


	5. Episode #5: The Curious Case of Scratchy Bottom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry did not pick a case because of the location (even if he is still twelve), Malfoy turns out to be a valuable asset in interrogation (Harry absolutely did not snicker at the word asset) and there's pie. There is also a missing girl, a suspect brother and the possibility that a Scandinavian country is involved.

**Tuesday  
** 5th September, 2006  
London, MoM 

Harry had been sent down to The Fifth Room to find them a case - Malfoy's words, not his - and he didn't know where to begin. The room was _massive_ and wasn't going to stop being massive just because he'd have liked a little less complexity. Or a little less feeling like he was going to drown in here. 

He'd done the logical thing and picked a box off a shelf at random. He wasn't rifling, exactly, but there were a lot of cold cases to choose from, and he didn't feel it was particularly dignified to do an _eenie meenie miny moe_. It was stupid, because it wasn't really supposed to be a matter of the cases catching his eye, these were _cases_. Work.

He sighed, shaking himself out of the funk he was in - fucking Malfoy sending him down here - and decided to just pick a file, determined to get on with it. What difference did it make which case he picked, anyway? 

It was then that his eye caught a file that looked different from the others, and he pulled it out of the box. Harry frowned as he looked at it; the case file was striped in several colours, giving it an air of not being able to make up its mind about what kind of case _exactly_ it was supposed to be. He put the box back and took the case over to a nearby desk, then gave it a closer look.

It was a missing person's case, but slightly more complicated than it looked at first glance. The missing person was a Rosa Dubois, daughter of Emmelie Byrne, a Lulworth local, and Olivier Dubois of Moroccan citizenship. Rosa had vanished after the accident that killed her friend, Julienne Honeybourne, though the file indicated that Miss Dubois had been the prime suspect in Miss Honeybourne's murder case, until the murder had been declared an accident. This particular comment was circled and there was a question mark next to it, in different ink.

Miss Dubois' brother was listed as suspect in her vanishing case, but he'd been let go as no evidence could be held against him. That explained all the colours; no one quite knew how to classify this thing.

Harry re-read the file, eyebrows rising. Even if Julienne's demise had been declared an accident, there was still something fishy here - why the disappearance act, if Rosa was innocent? He tapped his pencil against his lips thoughtfully, eyeing Rosa's photograph. She looked an ordinary young woman, smiling at the camera, and Harry had a hard time believing her capable of murder.

Still, he'd seen what perfectly innocent looking people were capable of, so her sweet looks weren't going to affect him. It was a confusing file and Harry suspected that the case had been discarded prematurely - the most recent addition was dated November 19th, 1941, which was just when things had started to go pretty dark in both the wizarding and Muggle worlds. 

He stared at the case for a fraction of a second and then started making notes of the people involved. When he could do no more down in The Fifth Room, he went upstairs to look up Marcus Dubois' current address. Harry was pretty pleased when he found it wasn't in a cemetery. It was always a risk with cases as old as these and particularly when three wars came between the past and present.

All right, so the Grindelwald thing hadn't reached British soil, but it still counted.

Harry picked up the file and his notes and went to find Malfoy. He poked his head inside the office and heard the sound of laughter. Malfoy was in there, talking to (and laughing with, Harry's brain helpfully supplied) Parvati. She smiled at Malfoy, said something that had Malfoy laugh again, and something inside Harry made a twist, the sort of sudden and tickling twist that he'd been entirely unprepared for. 

"Hello Parvati. Malfoy," he said, taking satisfaction in how fast Malfoy turned around. Harry raised an eyebrow at him. "We've got a case." He waved the file."So, are you coming?"

Malfoy looked at him, completely still save for the way his eyebrows seemed to be in conversation with themselves. Then Malfoy snapped out of it and he offered Harry a minuscule smile. "Where are we going?"

Harry looked down at his notes and at the address he'd scribbled next to Marcus Dubois' name and grinned, because he was still twelve years old goddammit. "Scratchy Bottom," he said. Parvati snorted.

***

**Tuesday  
**  
5th September, 2006  
Lulworth, Scratchy Bottom

"Was the car really necessary?" Malfoy asked for what had to be the third time on the nearly three hour drive down from London. 

"No, we're taking the car because I wanted to hear you complain about it," Harry said, turning down an even bumpier road. "We're taking the car because we're going to a mainly Muggle community. Dubois is a wizard, of course, but I'm expecting to speak to the locals as well, and it would be strange if we were to approach them on foot, seemingly from nowhere. So we're following Bustamant's advice and taking the car. We're almost there."

"Hm." Malfoy gave the road ahead a cursory glance, then looked back down at the file and Harry's notes. "There's a question that demands to be asked, you know."

"I'm sure there is," Harry said and took the car round a bend in the road. The car lurched slightly, the bend being slightly too sharp for the car, or rather, Harry's driving skills. Even if it was ministry issue and built to go places normal cars couldn't go. Malfoy made a face. "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything!"

"You were about to," Harry said, glancing over quickly. Malfoy had this look on his face as if he didn't know whether to be affronted or amused. Harry smiled. "Give it up."

Malfoy huffed. Harry smiled wider.

He parked the car outside a small cottage. There was smoke coming up from the chimney and outside the barn there was a somewhat rusty pickup truck. Chickens clucked in the courtyard.

"Ready?" Harry asked, taking the file case from Malfoy.

"Interrogation is _really_ not my thing," Malfoy answered dryly. There was a glint of humour in his eyes.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Come on." 

Mr Dubois was an elderly man with white at his temples and a none-too-friendly face. "What do you want?" he asked after Harry and Draco had shown him their IDs. "Is't about those boys from over at McKinney's, because I tell you, they had it comin', ain't nothing a few loose gunshots won't take care of and they won't be comin' over here again, botherin' me like that."

"Ah, no," Harry said. "We're here to talk about your sister, Rosa."

The man quieted and seemed to collapse in on himself. "What you want to know?" He peered at Harry, then Malfoy, then back at Harry. "You that kid from the war, ain't you?" He snorted. "Might as well come in, won't be having Lyn chewing me out for not inviting the bloody saviour in."

"I take it you're not one of Potter's biggest fans," Malfoy said smoothly, stepping in after Mr Dubois. "I'm not either."

"I'm not a fan of anything," Mr Dubois answered, pointing them towards a grouchy looking old sofa. When Harry sat down, he thought it growled at him. Mr Dubois himself sat in a reclining chair opposite the sofa, and Malfoy sat gingerly next to Harry. "My wife died in the war, you know. Only got Lyn left, and she got a mouth on her like you never heard before." 

Harry smiled, picking up on the note of pride in the man's voice. "I'm sorry for your loss, Mr Dubois. The war took its toll on all of us." He glanced at Malfoy, then at his hands. "We, ah, hoped you would talk to us about Rosa."

"What about her?" Mr Dubois said, eyes narrowing again. "That's a long time ago, ain't no one cared for what happened to her since… well, since."

"We're working on old, unsolved cases, Mr Dubois," Malfoy explained. "We are currently investigating your sister's case." He indicated the file in Harry's hands. "She disappeared around the same time another girl died. We were hoping you could perhaps tell us more." 

"Bloody right she disappeared," the old man grunted. "Saw the car fly right off the cliff myself and I thought, Marcus, they are both done for, ain't nothing you can do. They found Julienne's body, but Rosa was gone. At firs' they say she washed out into the sea, idiots the lot of them, the tide was coming in that night. Then they say I did it, but I tell them I did nothing, but Rosa was smart, got an award and everything, excellent spell work, and I told them she make it happen."

"Make what happen?" Malfoy asked carefully. Harry was noting everything Mr Dubois said down. 

"Vanish!" the old man said, bringing his hands together and then apart. "Poof!"

Malfoys' eyebrows went up and Harry paused. "Why would she do that, Mr Dubois?" he asked carefully.

"You think I know," Mr Dubois grunted. "I don't know nothing. Why did she drive over the cliff in the first place, you tell me!"

"Rosa was driving the car?" Malfoy interjected. "This is news to us. Please, tell us exactly what you saw."

"Well," he started, shifting in his chair. "It was in the summer and there'd been a ball over in West, you know, West Lulworth, barn ball deal, used to be Dorothy Doyle who set it up, these days it's her daughter, beautiful young woman she is. Married Booth, the kid knows how to fix a car, you want a good deal on that thing you came in, her engine don't sound no good, you go ask for Bill Booth in town. The ball, it's all music and dancing, but then it was in secret, you see, because of this Muggle war, and around these parts there ain't many wizarding folks. Julienne was Rosa's best friend, see, and her mum's a Muggle, so she, you know. Rosa went to the ball with her without telling me about it and if Dad'd still been alive, he'd have gone after her himself. I went to get her back where she's safe, Mum'd protected our house as well she could, ain't no Muggle bomb could get to us, but Rosa was furious." 

He paused, and Harry looked up from his note writing. "Did you argue, Mr Dubois?" he asked, keeping the tone of his voice gentle. 

"I ordered Rosa and Julienne into the car, but they refused to go. I got them to get into the car in the end and I drive them back, but up at the bend by the oak tree," he gestured the way Harry and Malfoy had come, and Harry remembered a bend with a small road leading off it a few miles back, "she said, stop the car, and I stop the car and we all get out and we woke Collard's dog and chicken, there's no Collard left on that farm no more, they're all Bishops now, Muggles the lot of them, the Collards all gone in the first war, but anyhow, the dog was making a ruckus and Rosa was shouting and I was shouting and old Collard was shouting, and then Rosa shout to Julienne to get into the car and then Rosa sat in the driver's side and started off, and I shouted to her to stop and she shouted to me to leave her alone." Mr Dubois stopped, then wiped his eyes, before he continued. "She was going down the wrong way, she wasn't going home. I ran after them but she kept going and then there was the cliff and they went right over. I thought they're dead and gone."

"Was that the last you saw of your sister, Mr Dubois?" Malfoy asked.

"Yes," Mr Dubois answered. "Ain't never seen her again."

"You said earlier that she disappeared on purpose. Do you have any idea at all why she would do that?" Harry asked. 

Mr Dubois looked at the window, a strange look gliding over his face. "No," he said curtly. Harry kept his own expression in check, but added a notation next to the statement: _might be lying_.

"Thank you, Mr Dubois. If it's all right with you, I have just one more question."

"Bring it on then," the old man said, looking away from the window.

"This file here says Julienne's death was an accident. Did it look like an accident to you?"

"I suppose," he answered. "Julienne's mother called the Muggles and gossip down at the tavern say the car was faulty, but I don't know nothing about that, 'twas _my_ car and weren't nothing wrong with it."

"Thank you, Mr Dubois. Unless my partner has any further questions, I think we're done here." Harry looked at Malfoy, who shook his head. 

"Thank you for your time, Mr Dubois," Malfoy said and stood, extending his hand. Mr Dubois shook his hand, then Harry's. "Actually, there was just one thing," Malfoy said. "Could you give us directions to the place where the accident happened?"

"Hmf," Mr Dubois said. "You just go follow the road back where you came, and when you come to the bend, follow the little road that goes off it. Used to be a farm down there, but it burned when I was a little boy and ain't no one wanted to live there anymore. The road goes almost all the way to the cliff's edge, that's where it happened."

***

**Tuesday  
**  
5th September, 2006  
Scratchy Bottom, top of the cliff

The cliff was unassuming and the burnt down farm nearby was so overgrown in weeds and trees that Harry wasn't sure he'd know it was there if he hadn't been told. 

"Do your thing," Harry said to Malfoy, who rolled his eyes at him.

"You overestimate me," Malfoy informed him. "There's nothing here for me to wave my wand at." He gestured at the cliffside. There was an old fence along the edge, collapsed in some places. Right at the end of the road, the fence was lying flat against the ground, half buried by growth and half rotten, the wire nearly rusted apart. "This is obviously where the car went flying."

"So you're telling me I brought you here for nothing?" Harry asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Waste of resources," Malfoy chided and leaned against the car. "Why, if I didn't know better, I'd say you brought me for my dashing company."

"What's to say I didn't?" Harry shot back. And promptly closed his mouth while he contemplated throwing himself off the cliff. 

Malfoy stared at him. "That backfired on you, didn't it?" he asked, then changed the subject. "Well, if we're done here, I'm going to head back. There's obviously no need for me on this case."

"Aren't you the least bit intrigued?" Harry asked. "Come on. I know you're curious."

"...Maybe," Malfoy admitted.

"So, let's figure it out."

Malfoy gave him a long look, then something gave. He sighed. "Did Dubois look suspicious to you?" he asked.

"A little," Harry agreed. "But I'm not so sure he had anything to do with what happened, beyond the, well... Being a catalyst for the accident."

"One doesn't just vanish into thin air," Malfoy commented. "If he didn't make his sister vanish, then something else did. There's no magic around here that could've been responsible. Assuming he was telling the truth and she made herself disappear... why do it while flying off a cliff with her best friend in the passenger seat?"

"Fuck me if I know," Harry said, looking over the precipice. The waves lapped against the sand directly below. 

He looked back at Malfoy, who was still leaning against the car. His hair fluttered in the wind, but Harry wasn't looking at his hair, he was looking at the long line of Malfoy's body, casual against the car. He wondered what it'd be like to touch him: rigid and cold, or tense but yielding?

"Potter!" Malfoy called out, his voice sharper than Harry'd anticipated.

He winced. 

"Let's move on."

"Yes," Harry said, feeling half dazed. He looked up, meeting Malfoy's eyes. "Sorry. Got lost in thought."

"I could tell," Malfoy said with a smirk on his lips. It reached his eyes, dammit, and Harry was utterly, and completely _screwed_.

***

**Tuesday  
**  
5th September, 2006  
West Lulworth, Shirley's kitchen

It took less than five minutes to track down Bill Booth, and ten minutes after that, they were sat in Shirley Booth's kitchen eating apple pie. 

"Mrs Booth," Harry tried, for the third time. "We hoped to talk to you about your balls -"

"Smooth, Potter," Malfoy said, which was easy for him as he didn't currently have apple sliding down his front. Harry glared at him, but Malfoy merely smiled sweetly and turned to Shirley. "Exquisite, Mrs Booth. I've never tasted better."

"Oh, thank you, my dear," Shirley answered, glowing smile on her face. "It's Bill's favourite, but don't you worry about that, boys, I've got another in the oven so he won't mind one bit."

"Suck-up," Harry said under his breath, as he attempted to scrub apple residue off his waistcoat. He glanced at Shirley furtively, but decided he couldn't risk using magic to remove the stain. _Bollocks_. 

Malfoy waggled his eyebrows at him and Harry wanted to punch him.

"Mrs Booth," Harry tried, _again_ , "we really must ask a few questions about your social events, if you'd please." 

"Oh, of course! What do you boys want to know?"

Harry pushed his plate of nearly finished apple pie to the side. "It's really about one specific event," he said, consulting his notebook. "In 1941 on July seventeenth, there was a barn ball -"

"That was well before my time!" Shirley exclaimed. "My mother would know, but I'm afraid she's fragile in her old age and won't remember a thing."

"Ah," Harry said. Then: "Do you happen to have...any kind of record on who would've visited that ball? If there's any chance that there's anyone alive who was present, it would help us a great deal."

"I'm afraid not," Shirley answered. "I must ask, why are you interested? That was such a long time ago!"

"A person who was at the ball that night disappeared afterwards," Malfoy explained, putting down his fork. "And another died. The case was never solved, so we're looking into it."

"Oh! Is this about that poor girl, what was her name - Julie? She was one of my mother's friends, you know. It was a tragedy, is what it was, left the whole community in pieces. They say they never found her friend's body, is that correct?" Shirley cut another slice of apple pie. Harry hurriedly finished his own in hopes for more.

"We are entertaining the possibility that her friend might still be alive," Harry told her, grinning at Malfoy's panicked expression as the giant slice of pie landed on his plate. "If you know anything at all that could help us, we would be very grateful."

"Oh, I don't know," Shirley fussed, cutting _another_ slice of pie and Harry watched with interest as she picked it up, furtively pushing his plate closer. "We don't keep guest lists, wardrobe lists, maybe, but I'm sure those are all gone." She put the slice onto Harry's plate. She paused, holding the cake server in midair. "There is something, maybe. Give me a minute, boys!" 

Shirley vanished up the stairs, cake server left behind on the table.

"Do you think I can vanish this and she won't notice?" Malfoy whispered, indicating the slice of pie on his plate. "I think I'll burst if I eat another bite."

"Give it to me," Harry said, eyeing the slice. Malfoy had only taken two, very small, forkfuls out of it. "I'll finish it for you."

"You're a beast, Potter."

"It's good pie!" Harry protested and demonstrated this by shovelling a large forkful of pie into his mouth. There was a loud sound from upstairs as if something heavy had just fallen.

"Are you all right, ma'am?" Malfoy called. "Do you need help?"

"I'm fine!" came the answer, if a bit shrill. Harry and Malfoy exchanged dubious looks, and Malfoy stood up. Shirley chose that moment to come back, face flushed and slightly out of breath. In her arms was a large photo album. "I got it!" 

Malfoy relieved her of the photo album, setting it down on the table, and saw to it that she sat back down. He refilled her glass of water. "Are you all right?"

"I'm peachy," she said, shooing him away. Malfoy found his seat again.

At this point, Harry had finished his second slice of pie and was eyeing Malfoy's. Malfoy gave him an exasperated look, but pushed his plate over anyway. Shirley watched them, an amused smile playing on her lips.

"Now, boys," she said, drawing the photo album near. "This album belongs to my mother. If you boys are lucky, there's something for you in here." She started flicking through the pages, scanning each of them until she was sure there was nothing of use on the page. 

Harry demolished his third slice of pie. Malfoy watched him with something like a mixture of disgust and fascination. Harry briefly thought about showing him the half chewed pie in his mouth, but then decided that a) he wasn't five years old and b) it would be detrimental to his as yet unformed plans for wooing Malfoy.

"Oh!" Shirley pulled out a photograph and turned it around to read the back of it. Her smile widened. "Well, aren't you in luck," she said, pleased as punch. "My mother has one photograph from that evening." She showed it to them. It depicted four young people, two women and two men. Harry thought he recognised Julienne, who looked radiant and… alive. "That's my mother, there. The others are Julienne, the girl who died, and this chap here was my mother's first boyfriend." She giggled, then sobered up. "His name's Peter Hudson, he passed away last winter, poor man. Fell on the sidewalk and broke his hip and never recovered. The other handsome fellow is Owen Wheatley, his best friend. He lives over in East, ahh East Lulworth for you non-locals, with his granddaughter, you could talk to him. See if he knows anything."

"Do you have an address for us?" Malfoy asked.

"Don't need no address, young man," she chided. "He lives in the house with the red picket fence. Just up the road, really."

Harry wrote the phrase _Owen Wheatly, house with the red picket fence, East Lulworth_ in his notebook. "Thank you, Mrs Booth. Do you have anything else that could be of use?"

"I'm afraid not," she answered, sliding the photograph back into its sleeve. "Go talk to Owen."

"Thank you," Malfoy said and stood. "And thank you for the pie. It was lovely."

"Very good," Harry said, looking forlornly at the remaining pie. "Thank you very much, Mrs Booth. You've been of great help to us."

Malfoy was already sitting in the car when Harry made it outside, pie wrapped up in a little plastic bag. 

"Score," Harry said, sliding into the driver's seat. He put the pie into the backseat, not-so-accidentally brushing against Malfoy as he reached around. 

"Beast," Malfoy said again.

"Good pie," Harry repeated. 

"It's getting late," Malfoy said. "It's a three hour drive back and I'd very much like to not be late home today."

"We'll come back tomorrow," Harry said. "We need to talk to Julienne's family as well."

Malfoy didn't answer, so Harry started the car, throwing Malfoy a glance. His face was expressionless.

The drive back to London was silent.

***

**Wednesday  
**  
6th September, 2006  
London, MoM

Harry never made it to his office in the morning. He didn't even make it to Level Two. Parvati apprehended him, handing him a giant take-away cup of coffee - Harry could smell caramel - and whispered, "Malfoy's on the warpath, _do_ stay out of his way today, dear." She fixed the lapels of his waistcoat and then slapped his butt. And hurried away.

"We have a case!" Harry called after her. "You hear me? A _case_!"

"Drink your coffee!" she called back. 

He eyed the cup, then Parvati, who rounded a corner just then and vanished out of sight. Harry sighed, shook his head, and turned around, only to come face to face with Malfoy himself, looking for all the world like the devil himself as he strode down the hallway towards Harry. He took a step backwards.

"Good mor-" Harry attempted, but Malfoy only glared at him.

"Let's go," Malfoy said brusquely and took the cup from Harry, brushing past him. "Now, Potter!" 

"That's my coffee," Harry said, tailing after Malfoy.

"Not anymore."

"You don't even like it!" Harry exclaimed.

Malfoy didn't heed him, but only proceeded to drink Harry's deliciously smelling coffee. Harry glowered at his back. Idiot.

"Who peed in your breakfast?" 

"None of your business, Potter."

"So somebody did indeed pee in your breakfast." 

Malfoy whirled around, mouth a thin line. "Are we going to solve this case or not?" 

"I...yes?"

"Then shut up and get moving!" Malfoy stomped away. Harry ran his hand through his hair, exhaling. The next three hours were going to be a long three hours. In close confinement. Oh joy. What put him in such a strop? Harry glared at Malfoy's back, but came up blank. Lover's spat, maybe. Jealousy coiled in Harry's stomach and he pushed it down, following Malfoy to the car.

Halfway through the drive, Harry cleared his throat. "So, do you want to see Wheatley first, or Julienne's sister?" 

Malfoy didn't answer.

Ten minutes later, Harry pulled into a service station off the motorway. He parked the car near the shop and got out of the car. "Stay here," he said and slammed the door shut. Malfoy didn't say a word.

Harry returned with an iced coffee, and a steaming cup of tea. He knocked on Malfoy's window with his elbow and waited patiently for Malfoy to roll it down.

"So," Harry said. "The way I see it, two things can happen now. One, I give you this," he indicated the tea in his left hand, "you drink it, you love it and you stop sulking and cooperate with me. Two, I pour it out while I drink this," he indicated the iced coffee in his right hand, "and you get to stare longingly at the wet spot on the asphalt. As punishment for stealing my coffee this morning."

"Option two says nothing about sulking," Malfoy observed.

"Well, no, but I reckoned that was a given." Harry shrugged. "What will it be, Malfoy? Are we going to work together nicely today, or are we not?"

"I can't believe you're attempting to bribe me into a good mood with tea," Malfoy said.

"Is it working?" 

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth quirked up. "Give it here, Potter," he said, grabbing the tea in Harry's hand. "And stop grinning."

"Nope," Harry said.

***

**Wednesday  
**  
6th September, 2006  
East Lulworth, in front of the red garden gate

Harry closed the red garden gate behind him. "That was a disaster," he said. Malfoy snorted. "And a complete waste of time."

"Not a complete waste of time," Malfoy said, pausing by the car. "We did gain some startling new insight into Rosa's and Julienne's relationship."

"We did?" Harry frowned. He looked at his notes. "We didn't."

Malfoy looked straight at him. "Are you kidding me."

Harry scrutinised his notes. 

"Wheatley said, I quote, _want nothing to do with those deviants_." Malfoy raised an eyebrow. Harry blinked. "Oh for heaven's sake, Potter! Do you need me to spell it out for you?" Malfoy gesticulated, then drew in a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. He muttered something Harry thought might've been _Merlin give me strength_. "Potter, it is common to refer to homosexual people and people of other non-conformative sexual orientations as deviants."

"So..." Harry said slowly, narrowing his eyes at the notebook in his hand. "Rosa and Julienne were lesbians?" 

"Bingo!" Malfoy crossed his arms, leaning against the car. "So, now that we know they were lesbians, and maybe involved with each other, we have to consider the possibility that we're dealing with a hate crime here."

Wheatley chose that moment to open his front door and shuffle out, cane in hand. "Get off my property!" he yelled, poking the cane into the air, despite the fact Harry and Malfoy were standing in the street. Okay, so Harry was leaning against the red picket fence, which was obviously a grievous offence.

"Just leaving, sir!" Harry yelled back, then stalked over to Malfoy. "Let's get out of here."

"Hate crime," Malfoy said, going round to the passenger side.

"Do we want to take this man's word for it?" Harry asked as he started the car.

"Oh, trust me. His disgust was real," Malfoy said, taking the notebook and flicking through it. "And you know, dear old Marcus was pretty shifty yesterday. I see you _did_ notice that." He pointed at Harry's _might've been lying_ comment in the margin.

"I'm not completely oblivious, Malfoy," Harry grumbled and turned the car around. "We're going to see Marcus."

"Not Julienne's sister?"

"She can wait." Harry looked in the rearview mirror. "If this is a hate crime, then Marcus should know something about it."

"Yeah, if he didn't commit it himself," Malfoy commented. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a suspect."

"Is it strictly necessary to sound that cheerful about it?" 

"I welcome any and all new developments in this case," he said. "Seeing as I don't get to do much else."

"You could just take yourself off the case and go back to the department of mysteries, if you want," Harry pointed out. "No one's forcing you stay."

"You practically begged me to stay," Malfoy countered. Harry glanced over, and sure enough, Malfoy was smirking. 

"Did not." 

"Did so," Malfoy said. "Anyway, it would be cruel of me to leave now. You need me."

"I don't need you."

"You need my charming personality," Malfoy clarified. "Or else we wouldn't have been able to talk to Shirley at all, yesterday. She didn't even ask to see our IDs."

"You're saying it's your charming personality that got us pie?"

"Yes." Malfoy smiled, pleased with himself. 

Harry shook his head, but he was smiling.

***

**Wednesday  
**  
6th September, 2006  
Lulworth, Scratchy Bottom

The chickens ran behind the barn as Harry pulled into the courtyard in front of Marcus Dubois' farm house. Marcus himself came out of the house when Harry and Malfoy stepped out of the car. 

"You're back again," Marcus observed. "I ain't got nothing new to tell you."

"We were hoping you might be able to shed light on some new information we've gathered," Harry said. 

Malfoy stepped up next to him. "Mr Dubois," he started. "Can you confirm that your sister was a lesbian?"

Marcus' face darkened. "You come here to ask me about my sister's perversities?"

Harry and Malfoy traded looks. "Mr Dubois," Harry said gently, attempting to be delicate. He could feel Malfoy's eyes on him. "We didn't come here to make you angry. A witness claimed that Rosa and Julienne were both lesbians and insinuated that they might've been romantically involved."

"Hmf," Marcus said, reluctant. "I suppose it's true. What do you care?" He glared at Harry, who bristled.

"It puts our investigation into new light," he said, looking straight into Marcus' eyes. "We now have to consider the possibility that you killed your sister, Mr Dubois. May we come in?"

The old man stumbled at step backwards, then abruptly turned his back on them and walked into the house. Malfoy gestured after Harry, who briefly considered telling Malfoy that he wasn't a lady and didn't need doors held for him, but gave it up and followed Marcus into the house. 

"I didn't kill Rosa," Marcus said, his left hand shaking on his lap as he was seated on the grouchy couch. He looked like he'd aged ten years in the span of ten seconds. "I would _never_ -"

"Mr Dubois," Malfoy said gently, seating himself next to the man. Harry crossed his arms. When did Malfoy get to be the good cop? "Can you please tell us what happened?" 

"Without lying this time," Harry added, only to have Malfoy shoot him a glare. 

"They accused me of killing her back then too," Marcus said. "But I didn't!"

Malfoy put his hand on Marcus' arm. "Take a deep breath, Mr Dubois, and just tell us what happened. What did you argue about that night?"

"Does it really matter what we argued about?" he asked. "Those were the last words I ever said to my sister and I've regretted them ever since. She's out there somewhere, and she'll never come back because of what I said." 

"You sound very certain that she's alive," Harry commented and the old man snorted.

"Told ya, the tide was in, didn't I?" He gave Harry a look like he thought he was stupid, but then slumped back together. "I didn't agree with her relationship with Julienne back then. Thought it was wrong. We fought about it often. That night wasn't...much different...except...you know. She drove the car over the cliff and vanished and…" He raised his arm but aborted whatever gesture he was going to make, and let it fall again. "I don't blame her for not coming back. I drove her away from me. But I didn't kill her."

"Are you absolutely certain that she is still alive?" Malfoy asked. "If we discard the assumption that you killed her because she's a lesbian -"

"I didn't kill her!"

"- why are you so sure she's alive? You must understand, we only have _your_ word for it. Spell it out for us."

Marcus was quiet for a long time. "I just _know_. I feel it in my bones, you understand?" He looked up at Malfoy. "Her last words to me were _I never want to see you again_. I don't think she died with Julienne, I think she ran away. I can feel it."

Malfoy looked at Marcus for a long time, then looked up at Harry. "Do you think he's telling the truth?" he asked.

"Yes," Harry answered slowly. 

"Where do you think she ran to?" Malfoy asked and Marcus shrugged. "Is there anyone that might know?"

"Julienne woulda known," Marcus said. "They were always making plans to see places. Maybe Sarah knows."

"Sarah?" Harry took out his notebook. 

"Sarah Langley. She was friends with Rosa and Julienne. Muggle girl." Marcus shrugged. "Still lives in town, she's just down the road from Bill and across from Adrienne, that's Julienne's little sister."

"Anything else you want to add?" Harry asked, scribbling in the book.

"If you find her…" Marcus looked at Malfoy. "Tell her I'm sorry."

"We will, Mr Dubois," Malfoy said, patting his arm. "I promise."

Harry closed his notebook silently.

They left Marcus on the sofa, the old man's face set with grief. The chickens were back in the courtyard and Harry was careful to not run any of them over. 

"Lunch first?" he offered.

***

**Wednesday  
**  
6th September, 2006  
West Lulworth, The Castle Inn Pub

There were a couple of tourists in the pub and Malfoy was eyeing them suspiciously from their table, Harry could see. He finished the phone call and went back.

"Try to look less hostile," he said, sliding into his seat. "Adrienne is home and will see us this afternoon."

"Mh," Malfoy said. "And Sarah Langley?"

Harry shook his head. "Didn't get hold of her. She wasn't in the phonebook. We'll just have to see if she's home when we've finished with Adrienne." 

The waitress brought over their food.

"It's not just me, this case is kind of a mess, isn't it?" Harry said, staring down at his fisherman's pie.

"Eat," Malfoy said, having cut his own fisherman's pie open already.

"Isn't it, though?" Harry picked up his cutlery.

"I don't know." Malfoy shrugged. "I'm sure you've seen messier cases. In both the literal and figurative sense."

Harry made a face. Malfoy snickered. 

They were quiet for a few minutes as they ate; the fisherman's pie was very good and a large group of tourists had seated themselves at the table directly behind them. 

"Do you think we'll find her?" Harry asked.

Malfoy looked at him. "Not if she doesn't want to be found," he answered. "Eat."

***

**Wednesday  
**  
6th September, 2006  
West Lulworth, Adrienne's home

Adrienne was a fragile looking old woman with a surprising spring in her step and twinkle in her eye. Her home was the family home, she informed Harry while pushing Malfoy into a deep reclining chair.

"It is very lovely," Harry told her. He chose to take a seat on the sofa before Adrienne could put him anywhere near the other reclining chair. Malfoy looked half swallowed by the chair and somewhat murderous.

"Thank you, dear," Adrienne said, paying no mind to Malfoy. "You wanted to talk about my sister?" 

"Ah, yes…" Harry glanced over at Malfoy, who said nothing, and opened his notebook. "We are looking into the case again. Is there anything you could tell us about Julienne and Rosa?"

"Well, I don't know about that," Adrienne mused, seating herself in the other reclining chair. She did not disappear into it like Malfoy had. "It's years and years ago, you know. They were very close."

"Were they in a romantic relationship?" Harry asked.

"Dear me!" Adrienne clutched her bosom, then leaned closer to Harry. "We don't say such things aloud!" she whispered, the volume of her whispering louder than that of her speaking voice.

"I'm sorry." Harry cleared his throat, then whispered. "Were your sister and Rosa in a romantic relationship?"

She nodded gravely, then burst into giggles. "I apologise," she said. "I wasn't supposed to know about it, I think. Julie never spoke of it, but I _knew_." She sighed. "She was very much in love. It shone right out of her, and it was all Rosa. Or Rosie, that's what Julie used to call her."

"They were happy together?" 

"I think so. Of course, it was war times, so nobody was much happy. We created our own little pockets of happiness when we could." Adrienne smiled. "I was very young then, but I understood these things."

Harry smiled back. "I know how that goes." 

"Did you know they were our only casualties during the war?" she said. "A couple of the boys volunteered, but they all came back. But Julie and Rosa…" She cleared her throat. "Well. No use getting all teary now, is it?" 

"I have a handkerchief if you need it, Miss." Harry dug into his pockets. Malfoy snorted from somewhere inside the chair, but Harry ignored him.

" _Mrs._ ," she scolded, but she was smiling again. "Keep your handkerchief, young man."

"All right." Harry put the handkerchief back, then looked over his notes. "There is just one more question, and then I think we'll be done here."

"Oh, shoot!"

"We...er, we have reason to believe that Rosa might still be alive -" Harry stopped short at the look on Adrienne's face.

"You're one of those magic folks, aren't you? Like Rosa and Julie and my father?"

"Erhm, yes," Harry answered, embarrassed.

"Smooth, Potter." Malfoy sounded more smug than he had any right to be, the bastard. Harry glared at him.

"You had that look about you," Adrienne said. "And you've got your wand poking out of your pocket, boy."

Harry flushed red. 

"The saviour of the world, ladies and gentlemen," Malfoy said. He was still half buried in the reclining chair. "I would make a terrible wand joke right about now, but we are in polite company so I shall refrain."

"Shut up, Malfoy."

"I still talk to old Marcus, you know," Adrienne said. "After my father died, he's the only one left around here. It's nice, talking to him. Sometimes he shows me tricks."

"Uhm…" 

Malfoy gave him an exasperated look and then heaved himself out of the reclining chair. It took considerable effort and his hair looked strangely flat except for where it stuck up at the back. "The point is, Mrs. Moore, Rosa might've used magic to save herself. We are trying to find her."

Adrienne was silent for a long time. "I don't know that I can help you with that," she said eventually.

"You knew your sister well," Harry said. "Did she and Rosa have any plans to travel? Any dreams to see certain places? Anything at all would be helpful."

"Julie…" Adrienne paused. "She liked Sweden. But I don't know that they had plans to go there… Julie never went there, she just thought she'd like to someday. Maybe because of the war. I don't know. It's so long ago."

"Thank you." Harry made a note in his notebook. "One last question, then."

Adrienne nodded.

"Did Julienne and Rosa have any close friends? Anyone who might still be around today?" Harry asked.

"Not very many," she answered. "There's Sarah. But no one else, I believe."

"Sarah Langley?" Malfoy asked.

"Why, yes!" Adrienne exclaimed. "Did Marcus tell you? He's still got such a schoolboy crush on her, poor guy. Thinks Lyn would mind if he asked Sarah out! There's a silly thought for you."

Malfoy chuckled and Harry smiled.

"Thank you very much," Harry said. "I think that was all." He stood up.

"You have been of tremendous help," Malfoy added, finally extricating himself completely from the reclining chair. His hair still stood up in the back. "Oh, no, don't get up. We'll see ourselves out, it's no trouble at all."

***

**Wednesday  
**  
6th September, 2006  
West Lulworth, Sarah's doorstep

"Sarah is our last lead," Harry said. Adrienne was observing them through her living room window and Malfoy waved at her. 

"Afraid it won't lead anywhere?" Malfoy turned back to face him, eyebrow raised. 

Harry shrugged. "I would like to be able to close the case. Find Rosa."

"Ring the doorbell, then." Malfoy gestured towards the green door in front of them. "Or are you afraid this is the end of our quaint adventure in Scratchy Bottom?"

"Scratchy Bottom is the valley behind Marcus' farm and this is - you know what? Nevermind." Harry stepped away from him and pressed the doorbell.

"It'd be a quick end to a hopeless chase," Malfoy offered, stepping up to stand beside Harry.. "And I can go back to not wasting my time."

Harry turned to glare at him, preparing a scathing retort, when he noticed the twinkle of amusement in Malfoy's eyes. He shut his mouth and turned back to look at the door. "Think she's home?" 

"Adrienne seemed to think so," Malfoy said.

Right on cue, the front door opened and a woman even older and more fragile looking than Adrienne opened. 

"Sarah Langley?" Harry asked. 

"Yes?" 

"I'm Harry Potter and this is my partner Draco Malfoy. We're here because we're looking into the case of Julienne Honeybourne's death and Rosa Dubois' disappearance. You were a friend of theirs?" 

"I'm not really his partner," Malfoy said, giving the woman a charming smile. "I'm more like a tag-along."

"Malfoy, do you want to wait in the car?"

"You wouldn't!"

"I would." 

Harry and Malfoy glared at each other, but Malfoy's eyes were dancing with merriment and Harry was finding it hard to keep the laughter in.

"Gentlemen," Sarah said, pulling them out of their little stand-off. "Maybe you should come inside." She stepped back, holding the door wide open. 

"Oh - of course, yes. Thank you." Harry walked in, not without sending Malfoy a quick glare first. 

Malfoy followed, taking great care to wipe his shoes off on the mat. Sarah closed the door behind them. 

"The sitting room is just through here, if you'd please," she said. "I will be with you in a minute."

Sarah Langley's sitting room was small but comfortable, with soft and cushy looking rose patterned chairs and needlework on the walls. Harry carefully chose a chair that didn't look like it'd swallow him whole, while Malfoy chose to not sit at all and rather took to surveying the needlework. 

Harry wondered how long it would take before Malfoy realised his hair was still mussed up in the back.

"What do you think?" Malfoy said, looking at a large embroidery of red roses and black kittens. 

"Exquisite," Harry replied. Malfoy shook his head.

"Not what I meant," he said, but didn't get to complete his sentence. Sarah had returned, carrying a large tray with a teapot and cups and a plate of cucumber sandwiches. _Cucumber sandwiches_. Meticulously prepared, it looked like, and she'd been gone but a minute. This woman either possessed some serious ninja skills, magic, or had been prepared in advance.

"Sit," she told Malfoy and her voice was pure steel. Malfoy sat. She put down the tray on the small coffee table and directed Malfoy to pour the tea. "Now," she said, pausing only to sit down herself. "We talk."

"Ah, yes," Harry coughed, pulling out his notebook and pen from his pocket.

"I do have one question," Sarah said, "before I tell you a single word."

Harry paused, looking at her. Malfoy straightened up.

"What is it?" Harry asked.

"Is Rosie going to jail?" She asked and the question threw Harry out of the loop for a second.

He glanced at Malfoy, who was frowning. "Is there reason for us to put her into jail?" Harry asked carefully.

"Of course not!" Sarah chided. She put sugar into her tea and her hands were shaking minutely. "She didn't kill Julie. It was an accident."

"We are aware that it was an accident, Miss Langley," Malfoy said. "What makes you think we want to put Rosa in jail?"

"Rosie blamed herself for what happened. Believing you did something is sometimes half a confession, isn't it?" Sarah put the spoon down, but didn't pick up the cup. "I watch those crime dramas on the telly, so I've learnt a thing or two over the years."

Harry smiled. "I can assure you, we are not going to put Rosa into jail unless there is a very good reason to, coupled with some cold hard evidence."

"Oh." Sarah let out a breath of relief. "That's good. You had me really worried there. There's been talk of you two going around town talking to people, so I reckoned it was only a matter of time before you came to see me."

That was an unexpected turn of events. Harry glanced at Malfoy, who seemed to think the same, but then suddenly turned to Harry. "Cucumber sandwich, Potter?" Malfoy said, offering him the plate. "They're very good."

"Thank you," Harry answered, taking a sandwich in confusion. He attempted to communicate this confusion to Malfoy through an elaborate eyebrow dance, but Malfoy seemed to not speak this obscure language, and simply continued to eat his cucumber sandwich and compliment Sarah.

"Miss Langley," Harry said, ignoring Malfoy for the time being. "We are trying to close this old case and the remaining piece is Rosa. We are trying to -"

"Sweden," Sarah said. "She went to Sweden."

Both Harry and Malfoy froze. Then Harry put down his as of yet untouched cucumber sandwich.

"It's what you came here for, isn't it?" She said. "You want to find Rosie?" 

"Well, yes…" Harry blinked. "You know where she is? Are you in touch with her?"

"I haven't heard from her since she left. I got a postcard from her a week after she left, but she hasn't contacted me since." Sarah sipped her tea. "She came to me, soaking wet and shivering, in the middle of the night, crying her heart out. It was terrible."

"Did she tell you about the accident?" Malfoy asked.

"Not in so many words. It was all a mess, really. I didn't hear about what had happened in full until the morning. By then Rosie was gone - I gave her some of my clothes and lent her some money, or _gave_ her, as I never really saw it again, but that's neither here nor there, and then she left."

Harry looked up from his scribbling. "You are positive that she went to Sweden?" 

"She and Julie had always wanted to go there. She said she wanted to go for Julie. She said she could never go back home again. I found out later that she and Marcus had fallen out with each other. At the time, Sweden was probably the best bet, things were ugly then, and it was neutral ground." She sighed deeply. "The postcard she sent me was from Stockholm. Post mark and all. That's the last I heard from her. I don't even know if she's still alive. We're all old now."

"If she's still alive, we'll find her," Harry said.

"These cucumber sandwiches are really good," Malfoy said and Harry frowned at him. 

"Thank you very much, Miss Langley," Harry said. "Is there anything else you could tell us that would make finding her easier?" 

"Honestly? No." Sarah shook her head. "I'm not sure Rosie is the same person she was when we were young. I know I'm not. And these things, they change us. Age changes us." She smiled. "I'm afraid I can't help you."

"You've been fantastic," Harry said. "Thank you for everything."

***

**Wednesday  
**  
6th September , 2006  
On the A31, in the shiny black ministry-issued car

Once in the car, Harry fell quiet, trying to focus on the road and not the thoughts in his head. Beside him, Malfoy was quieter still.

"Thanks," Malfoy said suddenly.

"Hm?"

"For today. It's been nice."

Harry looked over, surprised into stunned silence. 

"Oh, shut up," Malfoy said and Harry grinned. He returned focus to the road.

"You better pack your bags, Malfoy," he said. "Because tomorrow we're going to Sweden."

Malfoy huffed, but Harry was still smiling. The silence that fell over them was comfortable.

***

**Thursday  
**  
7th September , 2006  
London, the National Archives

Going to Sweden wasn't that simple. The Portkeys - both ways - had to be ordered, forms had to be filled out and a whole lot of protocol ensured that they got thoroughly covered in dust for the majority of the day. Harry and Malfoy went over the emigration registry - naturally, without luck - in both the ministry and the Muggle National Archives. Admittedly, Harry wasn't too keen on going through the National Archives, but they had to cover their bases.

"So, if there's no record of Rosa Dubois leaving the country, how can we be sure she left in the first place?" Harry groaned, then glared at the offending records. 

"These things aren't perfect," Malfoy replied. He seemed a lot less annoyed about the state of things. Good for him. "If she never notified any officials that she left, it wouldn't have been recorded." Malfoy looked up. "Not to mention, if she had, then she wouldn't be missing, would she?" 

Harry narrowed his eyes at him. "So what are we doing here then?" 

"Following protocol," Malfoy answered simply. The corner of his mouth lifted minutely and his eyes twinkled. "Although I do believe the protocol is somewhat vague about how thorough one needs to be at this stage."

"What are you proposing?" 

"That we go to Sweden, pose as muggles looking for a relative and use our cover to poke around their immigration records."

"Now?"

"Now's as good time as any other," Malfoy said, full on grinning now. Harry couldn't help but grin back. He knew their portkey was waiting for them. 

Back at HQ, Harry had a brief chat with Parvati while Malfoy went to fetch his suitcase. 

"That was quick," Parvati commented, eyeing the suitcase in Harry's hand. "Honeymoon already? That boy recovers fast."

"Ha ha," Harry said, but then frowned. "Recovered from what?"

Parvati shook her head with a smile, giving Harry a fond look. "Never you mind about that. How's the case going?"

"Dusty," Harry answered. "Hey, while I've got you here - is there any news regarding the Wilfing and Leach cases?"

"None, I'm afraid." She shrugged, then winked at something behind Harry's back. 

"Huh," Malfoy said, coming up next to Harry. "I would've thought."

"I'm sorry, boys." Parvati smiled. "I've gotta run, you two have fun. Did you know that Stockholm is often referred to as the Venice of the North?"

She grinned and before Harry could ask what exactly she meant with _that_ , she was gone. It was a real talent of hers, it seemed, and not one Harry was particularly fond of. He scowled but shook his head when Malfoy gave him a questioning glance.

***

**Thursday  
**  
7th September, 2006  
Stockholm, next to a lot of water

From the portkey office in Stockholm to the hotel Malfoy had booked for them on the ministry's dime, there was only a short walk. The time difference, little as it was, made it out to be later in the evening than Harry would've liked it to be, and he was wondering whether there would be anywhere that still had their kitchen open at this hour.

"Chin up, Potter," Malfoy said. "The hotel's got room service."

"Huh? What?" Harry looked over, having been preoccupied not only with the grumblings of his stomach but also the city around him, which was so very different from anything he'd seen before. Harry'd never been to Venice, but he knew there was water there, and there was definitely a lot of water _here_.

"You're wearing your hungry face," Malfoy said with a soft smile. "We'll get food as soon as we've checked in." 

"Oh. Okay. Yes. Let's do that."

They wound up sitting on Malfoys bed with a large plate of various cold cuts, fruits, cheeses, vegetables and little bowls with various sauces, between them. It was finger food at its best, though Harry wasn't sure they were all things that strictly went together. He'd never seen a tapas plate that looked like this, anyhow. 

"So, what's the plan for tomorrow?" Malfoy asked and crammed a little stuffed red pepper into his mouth.

"We check in with the local auror office," Harry said, staring at Malfoy's fingers. "Check their archive, see if we can dig something up on Rosa in their files."

"We won't find anything," Malfoy said and went for a piece of cheese so questionable looking that not even Harry had tried it yet. He dipped it in cloudberry jam before bringing it to his mouth.

Harry swallowed and looked down at the plate, picking something absentmindedly. "I agree," he said and licked his fingers. "But let me into your head for a minute. Why do _you_ think so?"

"Well." Malfoy shrugged. "If she went to the trouble to leave her home and come here… She clearly wanted to disappear. She was also clearly running from _something_." Malfoy eyed a ham and asparagus roll critically before biting into it. "If it were me, I wouldn't make myself known to the wizarding side of things."

"You'd go Muggle?" Harry looked up.

"If the situation required it," Malfoy said. "I think Rosa would've. She grew up in a close-knit community that consists of mostly Muggles, her girlfriend was a halfblood with a Muggle sister and Muggle mother and their best friend was a Muggle. She would've had the prerequisite knowledge to function in the Muggle world and, I assume, no qualms about it either."

"It makes sense," Harry agreed. "We still need to check in with the auror's office. We're here in official capacity."

"Naturally." 

"We should also give their records a look," Harry continued. He tried the questionable looking cheese and the cloudberry jam. "If only for protocol." He chewed thoughtfully, pleasantly surprised by how mild and soft the cheese was and how well it went with the jam. 

"For protocol," Malfoy said and smiled broadly. "I think I can deal with that."

Harry smiled back. "We can go impersonate Muggles after."

***

**Friday  
**  
8th September, 2006  
Stockholm, the National Archives

Their visit at the auror's office was brief, so they wasted no time in going back to the hotel to change into Muggle clothing. Finding Migrationsverket wasn't all that difficult, but it did turn out that they had no records extending beyond the early 90s, and were from there referred to the National Archives by a lovely young lady with a charming accent and even more charming smile.

At the National Archives they were met with a language barrier preventing them from doing any of the research themselves and a somewhat grumpy young intern who looked for all in the world like he'd rather be somewhere else.

Well, it _was_ Friday.

"No Dubois?" Malfoy asked dubiously. 

"Try that again," Harry said.

"There's no Dubois," the intern said, glaring at them both. "Not that year. There's a Dubois in 1951, but that's a dude from France."

Malfoy crossed his arms in annoyance. "Now what?" he spat, glaring at Harry. Harry held his hands up in defense. 

"Don't look at me!" he exclaimed.

"Are you done?" the intern asked.

"No," Harry said, turning to him. "Try one more name, please?"

The intern sighed.

"Could you check Honeybourne, please? Spelled H-O-N-E-Y-B-O-U-R-N-E." 

"Why Honeybourne?" Malfoy asked, frowning.

"I have seen _Titanic_ ," Harry said. 

Malfoy blinked at him and the intern grinned. 

"Dude, haven't you seen _Titanic_?" he asked. Malfoy shook his head slowly, eyes narrowed in suspicion. The intern laughed.

"What the hell?" Malfoy mouthed at Harry.

"Later," Harry mouthed back.

The intern went back to the records, this time chuckling.

"It's a movie," Harry explained. "There's a character in it who gives the officials her dead boyfriend's last name instead of her own."

"And you think that's what Rosa did?" 

Harry shrugged. "Do we have anything to lose?"

"Fair point." 

After some waiting, during which Harry threatened Draco with the prospect of forcing him to suffer through all three hours of it back at the hotel, the intern returned a slip of paper.

"There was a Rosa Honeybourne who entered the country in July 1941," he said. "Do you think that's the person you're looking for?" 

"The chances are high," Harry said. His stomach did a happy little dance and he glanced at Malfoy, who looked hopeful.

"Well, I photocopied the entry for you," the intern said. "It won't be of much use to you, so you should head over to Skatteverket, it's the tax centre; they have a complete person register over everyone in Sweden, so you should look her up there. They can tell you if she still lives here and where, or if she's dead, or whatever." He shrugged and handed the slip of paper to Harry. "You need to show them that thing." 

"Oh, thank you! That's very helpful." Harry smiled at him. "Do you have an address for the tax centre?"

"I can look it up for you on the computer on the way out."

***

**Friday  
**  
8th September, 2006  
Älvsjö (Stockholm), in front of what is presumably Rosa's house

"Should've have called in advance?" Harry asked, looking down the driveway at the house. It was built in white brick and white painted wood, the wooden part seemingly a part of the house that was added later. It was small and unassuming, but the windows were ornate, the garden was spacey and there was a terrace that went from the side of the house to the back; it looked rather homey, and if he had to say it, Swedish. 

"You were the one who didn't want to scare her off," Malfoy pointed out. Harry conceded.

"We can't forget that she is technically still a suspect," Harry said. "She's got the last pieces of the puzzle and they might not be as innocent as we want them to be." 

"Mhh," Malfoy agreed. He then turned to look at Harry. "So?" He raised an eyebrow and gestured towards the house. "After you?"

Harry narrowed his eyes at him, but stalked up to the front door. Malfoy followed him at a more sedate pace. There was a knocker on the door in brass shaped like a lion's head. Harry lifted the knocker and brought it down on the door hard, once, then twice. 

There was an ominous feeling in his gut he couldn't quite shake, though he couldn't tell if it was because the case was nearing its end or because it wasn't going to have the end he was hoping for. Not that he had any way of knowing how it was going to end, the facts added up to a conclusion he was certain of, provided everyone had spoken the truth. 

They had. It was just a thing he was certain of.

Malfoy nudged him and Harry straightened up. There was a small sound on the other side of the door and then it opened to reveal an elderly lady too pale and blue-eyed to be Rosa.

"Ahhh," Harry said. "We are looking for Rosa Honeybourne? Does she live here?" 

The lady looked between both of them, clearly confused. It occurred to Harry that she may not speak English.

"Rosa?" he tried again.

"Rosa," the woman repeated, although she pronounced it differently. Harry nodded uncertainly. "Yes!" she said and turned around, leaving them on the doorstep. They heard her call out to someone and Harry thought he caught Rosa's name in the flurry of Swedish.

"Should we…?" He nodded towards the door, but Malfoy shook his head.

"Wait till she comes back," he instructed. 

The sound of conversation reached them, however blurrily, and soon two figures made their way to the door. There was the lady from before, and another elderly woman who Harry thought must be Rosa. She carried a striking similarity to Marcus.

"Hello," Harry said. "Are you Rosa Honeybourne?"

"I am she," Rosa replied, enunciating clearly. An air of apprehension hung over her.

Harry cleared his throat. "I'm Auror Harry Potter and this is my partner, Draco Malfoy. Do you mind if we ask you some questions?" 

And then the weirdest thing happened; Rosa's face crumpled and she leaned on the doorjamb heavily for a second. Then she composed herself, stood up straight and proud and drew in a deep breath. "If you're here to arrest me, I will go willingly." The other woman gave her a concerned look, but said nothing.

Malfoy's eyebrows rose in surprise and Harry... well, he stared. 

"We're not here to arrest you," Malfoy told her gently. "If, however, it turns out there is something to arrest you for, then we will. Why don't we talk first?"

Rosa gazed at them, but then seemed to come to a decision. "Yes. We will talk. Please come inside - this is my wife, Saga," she said, then said something in Swedish. Harry assumed she was repeating her words for Saga's benefit; it was now confirmed that she did not speak English.

"Hello, Saga," Malfoy said pleasantly and shook her hand. Harry did the same, taking his cues from Malfoy. He was unsettled, and the language barrier was only making him feel even more out of his element.

They were lead to a sitting room with wooden walls and large windows, overlooking the garden. There was a swing in a tree, Harry noted, and a white garden shed in the same style as the house. Rosa gestured for them to sit, said a few words to Saga, who then left them alone. 

"Saga will bring us something to drink," Rosa said. "I'm afraid we have no tea as neither of us likes it very much, but we made juice and pie from the apples in the garden yesterday." Her English sounded funny - or not funny, exactly, but she sounded like she'd not spoken English in a very long time. Some of the words were faintly accented.

"That's all right," Harry said quickly, drawing out his notebook. He glanced at Malfoy, but he seemed okay despite the lack of tea. "I, ahh…"

"Why don't we wait with the questions until after the refreshments have been brought to the table?" Malfoy suggested, elbowing Harry subtly. "You have a very lovely home, Mrs Honeybourne - or should I say Dubois?"

"I haven't gone by that name for a long time," Rosa answered. "Honeybourne is fine, but please call me Rosa. I have grown used to being addressed by my given name." 

"Very well, Rosa." Malfoy smiled charmingly. Rosa relaxed visibly, smiling back to him.

Harry was suddenly very grateful that Malfoy was with him on this case. It was Malfoy's charm and intuitive understanding of social situations that had enabled them to not only speak to their witnesses, but also extract the information they needed without having to resort to magical means or devices. Rosa was skittish; she was clearly worried and was expecting them to arrest her. Harry was reserving judgment until after he'd heard her version of events, but it was clear to him that Malfoy was going to be of crucial importance. If he could set her at ease, they were more likely to get the straight truth.

"You have a swing in the garden," Malfoy commented. "For your grandchildren?" 

"For Saga's grandchildren," she corrected. "Though one could say they are just as much mine. Saga's daughter was a toddler when we met each other, and her son was in preschool." She smiled. "They are of course all adults now. The youngest grandchild just graduated from...I believe the English equivalent would be college. Around the same age as wizarding folks pass their NEWTS," she clarified, at the look of confusion on Harry's and Malfoy's faces.

"Congratulations," Malfoy said, leaning forwards in his chair, arms resting casually on his knees. Harry secretly took notes. "You must be very proud." 

"I am." She smiled. Saga returned, carrying a tray with a large carafe with a golden brown liquid in it as well as generous slices of pie already on cake plates. 

Malfoy grinned at the sight. "You know, this one is very fond of pie," he said, indicating Harry. Harry blushed. "Thank you very much. This looks delicious." Malfoy beamed at Saga, who smiled in return. Some things were simply universal, it seemed.

"It's a family recipe," Rosa supplied, distributing the plates.

Harry dug into his pie. "It's delicious," he said, which made her smile even more. Malfoy looked at him and somehow seemed to understand that he was given free reign to talk. Harry reckoned Malfoy may have finally learned to speak his special brand of eyebrow dance. 

"We were wondering," Malfoy started, keeping his tone even and gentle, "whether we perhaps should start from the beginning? Maybe if we tell you what we know, you can fill in the blanks for us?" 

Rosa nodded, her anxiety back in full force.

Malfoy gave her a reassuring smile, then grabbed the notebook from Harry's lap. He didn't need it, Harry knew he remembered every detail of the case, but this way he had somewhere to put his hands. 

"We know that on the evening of eleventh July in 1941, a car with you and Julienne Honeybourne went over a cliffside and crashed in the sea. Julienne died and you disappeared." Malfoy looked up from the notebook. "The Muggle authorities, or perhaps local gossip, said the car was faulty. Is this true?" 

"No." Rosa shook her head. "I don't think so." She shook her head again. "I was driving, did you know that? Julie didn't know how to, and Marcus had taught me. I lost control of the car. I was angry and upset and suddenly we were going the wrong way...I saw the cliffside, but I panicked. I lost control, I couldn't stop it from going over." 

Harry observed her quietly, plate of pie sitting on his lap. Rosa was upset, but it was a decades old upset that was coming over her; one that she'd already processed. It didn't make the hurt any less real, he guessed.

"Julie and I both had our wands with us. Julie was faster than me and had her shield charm up before I did. I don't know what went wrong. Maybe her charm was weaker. Maybe she bounced off the shield. Next thing I knew was that the car was broken into pieces and there was water all around us, and Julie had her wand through her throat." Rosa closed her eyes, drawing in another deep breath. Her hands shook minutely. "I was unharmed. Julie was...dead. It was dark and I remember thinking, and it was so strange, but I remember thinking that it was so odd that in the dark the blood had the same colour as the sea." 

"I'm sorry," Malfoy offered quietly. "That must've been a terrible thing to go through."

Rosa set her hands on her thighs, holding them still. Malfoy took the carafe with juice and poured her a glass. He handed it to her and then poured himself and Harry a glass of juice as well.

"Thank you," Rosa said. "It was terrible. I will never forget that night so long as I live." She took a sip of the juice, but didn't put the glass back on the table, and instead cradled it in her hands. "Marcus and I had fought that evening. I don't remember what the first argument was about, but I was angry already when I went to see Julie at the ball. Do you know about the ball?" she paused to look at them. When Harry and Malfoy both nodded, she continued. "Marcus came to find me there. We fought again. I know that he was only trying to look out for me, and Julie too, even if he didn't approve of our relationship, but I was young and angry."

"You shouldn't blame yourself for what happened," Malfoy told her. "It was an accident." He regarded her, the look on his face that of contemplation, then continued. "When one is angry, afraid, upset… We do things we regret later. Our judgment is impaired. We don't see clearly. What happened," he said, looking into her eyes, "was an accident. You mustn't blame yourself for it; you weren't in control."

Harry swallowed, his throat tight, and quickly took a sip of juice to make the pie slide down easier. He knew what Malfoy said was true; could even think of quite a few instances to which his words applied. Maybe Malfoy wasn't thinking of the same ones, but Harry felt shame burning in his gut. The war was long over, but some things would never be forgotten.

"It is very kind of you to say that." Rosa spoke up. "I was driving the car and I should've known better. I should've let Marcus take us home. I should've cast _protego_ over both of us. I should've… I should've done so many things differently that night."

"It was an accident," Malfoy said, his tone gentle. "Could you tell us what happened next?" 

Rosa nodded. She sipped her juice, then looked up. "I was in the water, inside the car, and Julie was dead. I was...I was so upset at first that I didn't know what to do. I knew I couldn't go back home. I didn't want to see Marcus ever again, and Julie was dead, so I didn't want to stay at all. I had one good friend, a girl I knew I could trust. She's a Muggle, but very sweet, we grew up together and she knew about magic. I apparated to her house. How I didn't splinch myself is still a mystery to me…"

"Sarah?" Malfoy asked.

"Yes. Did you speak with her?" 

"Yes we did. She's alive and well." He smiled. Rosa nodded, seemingly relieved. 

"Sarah, bless her heart, didn't ask any questions. She gave me some dry clothes - at that point I was so upset I couldn't remember how to perform a simple drying charm - and some Muggle money. I...said goodbye. And then I walked to Wool. It's a five mile walk, and the night was balmy, I remember that. I caught the first train away. I got off in one of the port towns, I don't remember which anymore, and got on a ferry. I disguised myself with magic when I could and probably broke a couple of laws that way, and finally made my way to Sweden."

They were quiet, all three of them, for a while. Harry looked at Malfoy, Malfoy looked at Rosa, and Rosa looked at her glass of homemade juice. The sun shone through the windows, painting the room in gold and warmth and Harry thought that it looked so out of place. 

This was no happy chat.

"Rosa," Harry said, finally speaking up. "Your case…" He cleared his throat, not quite sure how to say what he wanted to say. "It was quite complicated, and I appreciate your honesty. The case can finally be solved and closed for good."

"Are you going to arrest me?" she asked and Harry was so startled he was lost for words.

"No," Malfoy answered for him.

"But…" 

"You didn't kill Julienne," Harry said. "And if a couple of laws were broken when you fled the country, I think that can be forgiven. We won't press charges." He gave her a small smile. "Your case was a missing person's case with a couple of loose ends. You are no longer a missing person and we have confirmation that Julienne's death was an accident. Your name and your brother's name are cleared."

"My brother's?" She frowned. "Why would his name not be clear?"

"You must understand, that your brother was a suspect in your and Julienne's murder case."

"Harsh, Potter," Malfoy said.

"Sorry." Harry took the notebook back from Malfoy. "Obviously your brother didn't kill you, and he also didn't kill Julienne, so all's good."

"Oh," Rosa said. "Oh."

"He sends his regards," Malfoy said. "He wanted me to tell you that he's sorry. I believe he wants to reconcile with you."

"Marcus?" Rosa shook her head. "I'm sorry. It's been quite a day." 

"I understand." Malfoy gave her a sympathetic smile. "He still lives by Scratchy Bottom, in your old family home, as I've understood it to be. If you want to contact him again." 

"Thank you." Rosa put her glass away, then reached forwards to clasp Malfoy's hands in hers. "Thank you."

Malfoy only smiled. It was a warm, affectionate smile, and Harry...wasn't jealous, exactly. No, the feeling in his gut was something else entirely. 

"Rosa, if you don't mind," Harry started, "could I ask you to give us your statement? I have a Quick-Quill with me for the purpose, if you'd rather not write it down yourself. It's all we need to close the case."

***

**Friday  
**  
8th September, 2006  
Stockholm, their hotel room

The sun was setting when Harry and Malfoy made it back to the hotel. It painted the inside of the room red, pink and orange, and the sun gleamed off the polished headboard of Harry's bed. 

He threw himself onto the bed face down.

"Want me to order food up while we do the paperwork?" Malfoy asked, staring down at Harry. Harry knew Malfoy was staring at him, he could _feel_ his eyes on him.

"Can't we do it later?" 

"If we're quick, we can be back in London by ten," Malfoy pointed out. Harry had to admit that it sounded tempting. 

"Don't want to spend another night in a hotel with me?" Harry asked, rolling over onto his back and folding his hands behind his head. He winked suggestively.

"I'm afraid if we do I might not be able to control myself," Malfoy said, his eyes sweeping over Harry's body. Harry reddened, not quite sure if Malfoy was joking or not. The look in his eyes seemed genuine, but his tone was extremely dry. Maybe a bit of both. "Also, you snore."

Harry snorted. Joke, then. "Right back at you," he said. "Well, bring it on. Let's get this done." 

Malfoy picked up the phone and had pizza brought up. Like the evening before, they sat on Malfoys bed - Harry maintained it was because Malfoy's bed was pushed against the wall, so he could lean against it and be comfortable, but really he was just excited about sitting on Malfoy's bed. 

It was also comfier. 

Aside from the parchment sometimes straying a little too close to the pizza box and catching a few red grease stains, the evening progressed without incident and without comment. 

"What are your plans for the weekend?" Harry asked, when about an hour and half had passed and he felt both sated and restless. The silence, except for the scratch of quills against parchment, was getting to him.

"Mmh, none that matter," Malfoy answered, not looking up. Harry could've sworn there was a hint in there somewhere. Maybe. "Why?" 

"Just thought we might have drinks after," Harry said, attempting a careless shrug. "If you want, that is."

"What, tonight?" This time Malfoy looked up, his brow furrowed. He didn't look confused, exactly, Harry said to himself, more like intrigued and, okay, confused.

"Yeah."

Malfoy studied him. "Are you asking me out?"

"Yes," Harry answered, then his brain caught up with his mouth. "No! I mean - I just thought it would be nice. Have drinks, celebrate the closing of the case." Harry attempted a casual shrug. "Just drinks? When we get back to London?" 

"Sure. Yes, I'll have a drink with you." Malfoy gave him a smile. "Finish your paperwork first or we won't get going at all." 

"We could get drinks in the hotel bar if it came to that," Harry pointed out, but received only a stern look from Malfoy. "Okay! Drinks in London, it's cool, I'm _on_ it."

The paperwork was wrapped up at exactly seventeen minutes past nine, and their suitcases were packed three minutes later, and they were on their way to the portkey office, weaving through Muggles on their way out for a night in town.

"I know this nice place in Muggle London," Harry said as they waited for the staff to activate their portkey. "It's quiet, there's a pool table, decent beer on tap…"

"And private?" Malfoy asked, knowingly.

"Well, I haven't yet met another wizard or witch in there," Harry answered. "I used to go there a lot just after the war, before I started going to the Golden Hind. But it's really nice, I swear."

Malfoy chuckled. "I believe you."

Harry opened his mouth to say something, but the portkey activated and his words were swallowed by the vacuum. He stumbled and nearly toppled over his suitcase when they touched ground in London, but managed to not fall over.

The bastard Malfoy had of course managed to go through the entire portkey experience with not a single hair out of place. 

"You were saying?" Malfoy said and Harry, seeing an out when it was put right in front of him, took it and ran with it. 

"I'll side-along you," he said, offering Malfoy his hand. Malfoy smiled, but instead of taking Harry's hand, he crowded close to him and snaked his arm around Harry's waist. 

"How gentlemanly of you," Malfoy said, close to Harry's ear. "Are you sure you can get us there safely?" 

"Positive," Harry replied, putting his hand on Malfoy's shoulder. He looked straight into Malfoy's eyes, and then grinned, unable to keep the low, bubbling happiness in his belly away. This was what he wanted, though he hadn't wanted to say as much; as far as he knew, Malfoy and Benjy were still a thing, even if they were having a spat of sorts. Maybe. Harry didn't technically know if they had a spat; that was all conjecture on his part. "Hold on tight." 

The alley was dark and their suitcases scraped against the ground. This time Harry might've stumbled a little on purpose, only to get closer to Malfoy, feel the press of his body against his own. Malfoy's breath was hot on his cheek and Harry turned, just so, so that if Malfoy turned his head -

"Is that a _person_?" Malfoy asked sharply and drew away. Harry'd drawn his wand within seconds, ready to perform a memory charm if need be, and whirled around.

It was indeed a person, but it was an unmoving one. Harry took stock of their surroundings and performed a quiet _homenum revelio_ , muttered under his breath. It revealed nothing but the two of them and the person on the ground, and the street beyond the alley was quiet. Next to him, Malfoy also performed a spell, but he seemed to draw a blank as well.

"The area's clear," Harry said, stepping over to the person. 

It was a man, looking to be in his sixties or seventies, and he was...strangely underdressed, wearing only trousers, shoes and an undershirt. Harry crouched and felt for a pulse, but found none and the man's skin was cold to the touch. Harry ran his wand over him quickly, but the man was still as dead as he'd seemed the moment before.

"Dead body," Harry informed Malfoy, who'd stepped up next to Harry. He was looking down at the body with a mixture of disgust and intrigue. 

"What'd he die from?" he asked curiously. "Want me to check?"

"Not yet." Harry checked his pockets for a wand. There was no wand, but there was a wallet and inside the wallet there was a Muggle driving licence and ID card. There were also a credit card and a library card and an unmoving photograph. "The man's a Muggle."

Harry put the things back into the wallet and the wallet back into the man's pocket. Just as he was about to stand, he noticed something on his upper arm, and leaned closer for a better look. There were marks on his arm that looked a lot like the ones he'd seen on Wilfing's body. They looked a lot like puncture wounds.

"Crap," Harry said and stood up. He turned towards Malfoy. "I, uh," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I need to call this in to the muggle police; I think this is a murder case."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at him. "That's not all, is it?"

"Well, no," Harry admitted. "I'd like to stay behind, under the Cloak, see what becomes of this. I've got a suspicion… I want to hang around for a little while, watch the proceedings." He gave Malfoy a sheepish smile. "Can we do a raincheck on the drinks?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. I'm sorry," Harry said. "I really am. But this is important too."

Malfoy huffed. "If that's what you want." He glared at Harry.

Harry felt a stone drop in his stomach. "I'm really sorry, Draco," he said. "We'll have drinks later, tomorrow maybe…"

"I'll see you, Potter," Malfoy said and grabbed his suitcase. Then he was gone.

_TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK..._


	6. Episode #6: Whose Bodies?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bodies and missing persons are starting to stack up. Never mind old cold cases, someone needs to start sorting things out. It’s time to start looking for new angles. Maybe Detective Inspector Iris Bustamant of the Metropolitan Police can help? Draco is not happy. Is he just sulking or does he have a point?

“I don’t fucking believe it!” Harry slammed through the Auror office, causing Simon Finknottle to let out a little shriek and drop a rack of scrolls. 

Draco was lounging in the doorway of the Auror office as he watched Harry storm up the corridor.

“Looking fetchingly furious, Potter. What’s up?”

“Bloody Dawlish!”

“What’s he done now?”

“He’s put a veto on the lead into the body in the alley! I even filled in all those bloody forms properly and nothing! Neither Ron nor Robards know anything about it! It’s not even on the files for the investigation! They’ve got next to no leads on Wilfing or Opal Leach and a perfectly good body with those same bloody marks on it turns up and Dawlish has suppressed it!” Harry fumed.

“Why?” asked Draco, reasonably.

“What?”

“Why has Dawlish suppressed the lead?” 

“I don’t bloody care, but I’m going into his office to unsuppress it now!”

“Oy,” shouted Morris Bones over the screen of his cubicle, “don’t go pissing him off Harry. I need him to sign my extra leave forms!”

Draco grinned wickedly and, taking a moment to enjoy the view of Harry’s striding, cloak snapping anger, followed in Harry’s slipstream as he stormed off to Dawlish’s office. With a polite nod to Parvati Patil, he stood just inside the outer office door listening in an entirely transparent manner. Parvati also rose from her desk to listen as Harry furiously outlined his objections to Dawlish’s decision not to follow up the Muggle body.

“What do those forms exist for, sir, if we never consider looking into parallel Muggle police investigations?”

Dawlish’s rumbling response could only just be made out, citing resources and the altered state of Wizarding security in the post-war era. “It’s not safe. We had enough trouble concealing our existence from the Muggle police during the war. I’m not damn well announcing ourselves to them now over one dead Muggle!”

“I’m not asking you to do that , sir! I know there is precedent for discrete joint investigation. I filled out the forms.”

Both their voices were raised now and a couple more Aurors had drifted in to join Parvati and Draco listening.

“Well, we don’t do it anymore!” thundered Dawlish.

“That’s just not good enough!” Harry shouted back. “The Wilfing/Leach investigation is totally stalled. This is a vital new lead. What is more, if we have a murderer operating across both the Magical and Muggle worlds it would be _completely_ irresponsible of us to ignore the Muggle side of the investigation.”

“Are you questioning how I run this department?”

“If you choose to look at it like that! Are you going to reconsider your stance on making inquiries into this case?”

“No I’m bloody not, you insubordinate little shit!”

“Then I’m going to Kingsley. I’m sorry, but this is just too important to let go.”

Everyone but Draco made a token effort to look as if they hadn’t been standing around listening as Dawlish’s office door was thrown open and Harry strode out.

Behind Harry’s back, a hum of chatter immediately broke out as Aurors discussed the latest blow up and Bones bemoaned his chance of getting his extra leaved signed off for at least a week. Only Draco trailed after him, curious to see if he was actually going to storm into the Minister for Magic’s offices and demand an interview.

It turned out that he was and – which Draco couldn’t help finding extremely irritating – he was granted one.

*

“Harry,” said Kingsley, when Harry had finished giving voice to his dissatisfaction with the situation in the Auror department. “Do you think I keep Dawlish on as Head Auror because I think he is a perfect man for the job? Do you think, for that matter, I have Margot Trelawney head up Records and Services because I am overawed by her administrative prowess? 

“You know how many valuable Wizards and Witches we lost over the course of the War, but maybe you don’t know how many more refused to come back to work within the Ministry after their experiences here. 

“The Auror Department was particularly hard hit. While you were in training the department was operating at 70% staffing levels at best. I cleared out those Aurors who faced criminal charges and those whose wartime record would have fundamentally undermined the credibility of the department. It didn’t leave me with a lot of options. You extend that reality across every department in the Ministry and maybe you will realise why the pace of change and of reform is a little slower than you would wish.

“Dawlish is not the Head Auror I would have chosen if there were other options, but there were not. He is a competent investigator and a sound administrator. He has the respect of the older and, shall we say, more traditional, Aurors in the department and is able to keep them to the new regulations and he has a good enough record to maintain the respect of younger colleagues.”

“I Know he’s not that awful, sir,” broke in Harry, “but it’s frustrating. Some of his decisions I just don’t agree with. Now he’s side-lined me I’m not even able to do what I could as Deputy Head Auror to watch out for those decisions.”

“If you think I am blind to his faults, you are wrong. But Harry, you are just 26. I know you will make a fine Head Auror and it will be one of the proudest moments of my tenure as Minister when I am able to appoint you to that post.”

At this, Harry felt something of a lump in his throat and had to look at the carpet for a bit.

“But you [ _]are[_ ] only 26. And you are a brilliant investigator too. Being Head Auror means hardly leaving the department, hardly leaving your office. It means monthly meetings with Barney Quiggley from the Treasury and having to argue about every hour of overtime your department claims. It means managing relations with all the departments across Magical Law Enforcement and the Ministry at large. It means carrying the responsibility not just for your case, but for every case currently under investigation and for the well-being of every Auror within the department.”

At this Harry stirred again. Kingsley held up his hand. “Just a moment more Harry. It is not that I don’t believe you can carry these responsibilities. Well, maybe not the not shouting one.” And he smiled at Harry in such a fond paternal manner that Harry had to look at the carpet again.

“It’s that I don’t want you to. Not until I judge that the Wizarding World cannot do without you in that role. I want you to do your job, spectacularly, as you do, but then I want you to be able to go home, have a meal out with friends, a game of pick-up Quidditch on the weekend, fly, as far as it is possible for you to fly, beneath the media radar and to have something of the life a 26 year old man should have. I want you to go on dates. You do go on dates, don’t you Harry?”

At this Harry turned a bright red colour and looked up at the ceiling instead.

“Anyway, Harry, as it is I fear it will not be that long before my hand is forced. I agree with you on this issue. We need to revisit department policy on liaison with the Muggle authorities on crimes that cross jurisdictions. Dawlish is right. All that fell into chaos during the first war and hasn’t really been reinstated.

“I don’t know,” said Kingsley, musing, “I’ll have to look up some of the contacts I made in the MoD during the war. It’s always difficult, you know, broaching the subject of Magic.”

“If it’s any help, I know a Muggle police office, a Detective Inspector I think she was, who knows about us already. Her dad’s a Squib. He was a police officer too, involved with the Sirius case.”

“Hmm,” said Kingsley, “that could make things somewhat easier. I’ll see what I can do. Dawlish isn’t going to like this though and your working relationship is going to be under even more strain. I’m going to have to ask you, Harry, to do what you can to work with Dawlish until such times as I judge it unavoidable to appoint you in his place. Do you think you can do that for me?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll try,” said Harry, “and, er, thanks, for, um, explaining everything like you have. I appreciate it.”

Harry hoped that Kingsley could tell that he meant that he appreciated his kindness too. Judging by the way Kingsley came round the desk to give him a hug when he rose to leave, he did.

*

It was only a couple of days later when Harry and Draco got a note through from Kingsley that they were to meet DI Iris Bustamant by the north end of the Blue Bridge in St James’s Park. 

“Why in Merlin’s name are we meeting her in the park?” asked Draco incredulously.

“Says here that Kingsley’s predecessors recommended making first contact in a neutral location. Something about establishing the parameters of the cooperative relationship before the Muggle officer is overwhelmed by the flying memos and the Aurors are distracted by the coffee machines and computers.

“We’d better take along some of the basics of the Wilfing/Leach investigation. I’ll go and grab a copy from Ron. Meet you in the Atrium,” said Harry. “At least it’s a miserable day. The park will be quiet.” 

Harry was right, and apart from a few determined groups of tourists with their anorak hoods tightly cinched around their faces the park was relatively quiet. Iris stood beneath an umbrella in a raincoat and sensible shoes at the appointed meeting place. She had a look of solidity about her that suggested that she was also wearing a stab vest under her mac.

“Detective Inspector Bustamant, nice to meet you again,” said Harry, holding out his hand, which Iris shook.

“Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy,” said Iris nodding, “I’m afraid I don’t know your official titles.”

“I’m Auror Potter and he’s Unspeakable Malfoy, but please just call me Harry,” Harry replied.

Iris tried unsuccessfully to suppress a snort of laughter. “Seriously,” she said, turning to Draco, “that’s your job title? Is that not, like a pun, where you’re from?”

Draco smiled wryly. “It is and yes, as you’ll probably gather if we end up working together more, the Magical world does tend to favour a somewhat juvenile sense of humour from time to time. But, you can call me Draco too,” and they shook hands.

“And call me Iris. Wait, you’re all dry?” Iris observed.

“Yes, it’s an Impervious charm,” said Harry, “we can extend it to you if you like?”

“Won’t that look weird?” asked Iris.

“Well, we can add a Disillusionment charm on top of that, so no one will really notice us,” said Draco.

Iris took a deep breath. “I’m going to have to get used to all this, aren’t I? OK, go ahead.”

Harry cast the charms and they began to walk slowly towards Horse Guards Parade. Harry outlined his hunch regarding Wilfing and Opal Leach and showed Iris some pictures of Wilfing’s body, which, mercifully for Iris’ magical learning curve, were not moving, on account of Wilfing being dead.

“We’ll need to examine the body you have, to be sure,” said Draco.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to see the remains of Wilfing and Leach first,” replied Iris. “My orders were very clear. I’m to be 100% sure that this requires joint investigation before I let things proceed any further. You can imagine that whoever sanctioned this on my end is _really_ hoping it will all turn out to be a mistake and we can all go back to knowing that magic doesn’t exist.”

“All right,” said Harry, “we’ll take you along to see our side of things first.”

“It would be much quicker to just let me see your corpse though,” interjected Draco. “We could just sneak in. You know we have ways of not being noticed.”

“No. I am not compromising the security of the station unless absolutely necessary, ” Iris replied firmly. 

“But we aren’t a security risk!” expostulated Draco.

Iris looked at him levelly. “Oh yes you are. I’m not a child, to be won over with little tricks like not getting wet in the rain. I have some idea of what those sticks you carry can do. Things I wheedled out of my little cousins when they were staying with us. When they couldn’t go back to their school because their dad was a normal man, not a wizard.”

Draco paled and got the same frozen look on his face as he had when the Longbottoms had refused him entry to their home.

“I know you just want to help,” said Iris, “but we’re already talking about the potential that one of your lot has been offing people from my side. I’ve been detailed to oversee this liaison, assess if it is vitally necessary and ensure that it is progressed with the minimum threat to civilians or fellow officers.”

“What do you mean people?” interjected Harry. “Are we talking about more than one murder here?”

“We could be talking about more than one body connected to this crime. I’ll tell you about it more when I’ve seen yours, OK?”

“OK,” Harry conceded reluctantly. “Do you want us to Apparate you there? That means I take hold of your arm and …”.

“I know. My dad told me. And no thanks, I don’t like the sound of that,” interrupted Iris. “Can’t we go a normal way?”

“Well we can walk and use one the concealed Ministry entrances. The nearest one is disguised as a public lavatory. You have to climb into the toilet bowl and you’ll arrive in the Ministry Atrium,” explained Harry.

“Climb into a toilet?”

“Yeah, well, you know what Draco said earlier about the Magical sense of humour. I’m afraid he wasn’t kidding.”

Iris laughed and took a deep breath. “Apparation it is then. How bad can it be!?”

Judging by the grey tinge to Iris’ complexion when she found her feet in the Atrium, it was pretty bad. 

Her slightly wild, wide-eyed, “Holy. Shit. You mean all this is under Whitehall?” “Holy shit, what are those?” (goblins) “Fuck me!” (flying memos) and “You guys really like purple?” convinced Harry that Kingsley’s predecessor had been right about having their preliminary meeting elsewhere.

In the presence of Wilfing’s and Opal's remains though, Iris was entirely professional, paying close attention as the body was displayed. She questioned Mediwizard Barnes about the condition of the corpse and once they had got around the differences in Muggle and Magical world pathological terminology she had indicated, grim faced, that she was ready to leave.

They went along to Harry and Draco’s rooms, where Iris had just shaken her head at the shelves of Magical paraphernalia, but accepted a cup of tea.

“It’s just normal tea, right?”

“Oh yes, quite normal,” Draco had replied, a little sharply.

“Look, I’m sorry all right,” said Iris, sharply in return. “But I am seriously outside of my comfort zone here. This,” she gestured around, “is all just pretty fucking weird and forgive me if I’m having a hard time adjusting to being in a concealed location full of oddballs who carry magical wands that I know could kill me.”

“No one’s going to hurt you,” said Draco firmly.

“Well, excuse me if I’m not entirely comfortable taking your word for it,” Iris snapped back. Draco’s head shot up and he looked away, lips thinned.

Harry shook his head. “Shit, Draco, she didn’t mean you personally! She doesn’t know anything about you.” He reached towards Draco, motivated by some urge to comfort. Realising he didn’t know what he was doing, he let his hand fall and changed the subject. “You were going to tell us about further Muggle victims? You’re convinced now, aren’t you, that there are strong indications of a connection?”

“Yeah,” said Iris, pulling herself together. “The puncture wounds, whatever they are, correspond to those found on the body of Berry. That’s the guy you found, Edward Berry. The pathology on Berry though, flagged up a number of matches with a series of unexplained deaths. All unidentified victims, until this year. Eighteen corpses, roughly matching this profile have been found in the London area since 1999. The match isn’t concrete. Only one of these other bodies had similar puncture marks, but they all exhibited similar features: poor state of health, poor nutrition, organ degradation and multiple organ failure as cause of death. They were all dumped in similar ways, with little effort made to conceal them and none of them, apart from Berry and another two this year, have matched any record for a Missing Person on UK or Interpol databases.”

“Shit!” breathed Harry.

“I wasn’t sure about the connection, because your guy, Wilfing’s cause of death, the neck, doesn’t match up, but the marks do and the poor condition of his organs and tissue. The same with Opal Leach. I think you’re going to have to come down and take a look at what we’ve got.” 

“I’ll need to get some things together,” said Draco, still somewhat stiffly.

While he was gathering equipment into his leather satchel, Iris took Harry aside. “Look, I’m sorry about that. It’s just all a bit much. Is there … could we try the toilets on the way out? I didn’t really take to Apperating.”

“I can do better than that,” said Harry, smiling. “We’ve got another entrance that is a defunct telephone box and it’s nearer your station.”

“Oh, thank God!” said Iris, sagging with relief. Harry laughed and ushered the pair of them back to the Atrium.

*

From the phone box, Iris guided them over to West End Central, the station housing the murder team looking at Berry and related homicides. 

Draco didn’t know what he’d expected a Muggle police station to look like, but why would paint it that dirty, yellowy-white colour? And what was that odd yellowy wood that clearly wasn’t real wood at all?

Iris flashed her ID at the uniformed officer in a glass booth and keyed in a pin code to get them through a heavy glass door beyond the public areas of the station. Why was there so much glass? Draco thought. Surely it must get broken all the time in the absence of any protective spells? He tried to suppress a shudder of unease as it slid closed behind him, sealing them inside the building.

“We’ll go up to my office first and I’ll take you onto the HOLMES terminal to review what we’ve got so far. Then we can take Draco down to the morgue for the Funny Business.” Iris missed Draco’s frown at the term as she turned to lead them upstairs.

In her office, Iris slung her stab vest over a chair and fired up her PC. “Pull up a couple of chairs. Can you see the monitor OK?”

Navigating rapidly and typing in various passwords, Iris opened up the HOLMES page for the Berry case. “In this file you can see the scene-of-crime reports on location where the body was found. Here is the pathology report for Berry. You can see the state of the corpse seems to tally with key indicators on both Wilfing and Leach. These marks here are flags to other bodies with similar path notes. They are all unidentified.”

“Who noticed the connection?” asked Draco, intrigued despite himself.

“No one did,” said Iris, “that’s what HOLMES is for. Home Office Large Major Enquiries System. Obviously someone fiddled the acronym. With this, instead of relying on an officer on one enquiry stumbling across a coincidental connection to another enquiry whilst talking shop with a friend in a pub, there is a central database into which everything, and I mean everything, pertaining to any major investigation is logged.”

“But how does it work?” asked Draco.

“I don’t know how it works exactly,” replied Iris, “I’m not a software engineer, but I know it is used to track the progress of every major investigation. The Senior Investigating officer uses it to monitor and prioritise resources. See these here, they are Actions that have been allocated to various officers on the team. This is where the chain of evidence is tracked, so nothing can go missing.”

“That is seriously amazing!” exclaimed Harry in awe.

“Yes,” said Iris enthusiastically, “and these here are nominals. That’s everyone interviewed in the course of the investigation. HOLMES can flag up if they have been logged in any other enquiry since the system was set up. It can look for parallels and similarities across all the enquiries on the system. It’s a bitch to keep feeding in the data, but it’s a major resource.”

Harry and Iris bent their heads together over the monitor and Iris took him over the case in detail, while Draco sat, apparently not listening, lost in thought. When they were done they all headed down to the morgue.

“We’ve only got Berry down here of course. They others have long since been released back to their families for burial in the case of the two we could identify, or cremated by the Local Authority, but we have DNA and tissue samples stored.”

“Let’s take a look at Berry first,” said Draco. “I’m going to need the area cleared of Muggles.”

“Why? What are you going to do,” asked Iris, immediately suspicious.

“Nothing!” replied Draco, exasperated. “I can transfigure my wand and equipment to look vaguely like electrical devices, but I’m assuming it won’t fool a Muggle expert for long. They’ll want to know what I’m doing and I can’t tell them, so you’d better get them to leave.”

“All right then.” And Iris unfolded a letter from inside her jacket. “Time to start invoking the name of the Chief Commissioner.”

Once Iris had the lab cleared, Draco was able to start his examination, with his wand transfigured into a small handheld device with buttons and a small red light.

“What’s that meant to be?” asked Iris. “It looks like a TV remote control.”

“It probably is one.” replied Harry, stifling a laugh.

“I don’t fucking know what it’s meant to be. I saw it in a shop window,” groused Draco, “so you better make sure no one comes in, OK?”

“Let’s go and talk about this somewhere else,” announced Harry hours later when Draco had finished his examination of both Berry and the frozen tissue samples that had been ordered over. 

“We’ve missed lunch and I’ve spent as much time as I want to in this morgue.”

“We can go to the Burlington Arms over the road,” said Iris. “This time of day, it should be pretty quiet upstairs.”

The kitchen was closed, but the barman said he’d see what he could do and presently they were seated upstairs in a largely deserted pub dining room, with three cheese ploughman’s, two pints and a coke.

“It’s definitely a Wizard, I’m afraid,” delivered Draco as he sipped the top off his Bishops Tipple and gave a sigh of satisfaction. “This is brewed in Wiltshire, you know? Anyway, there’s no trace on Berry of the charms used to conceal the puncture marks on Wilfing and Leach, but there are clear signs of magical imprint on the body. Stomach shows trace signs of a number of similar potions too.”

Iris sucked her teeth. “So we’re definitely looking at a wizard perpetrator then. I wish I had ordered a pint now.”

“Afraid so,” affirmed Draco. “What’s more, the tissue samples you provided all, as far as I could make out, again show traces of similar potions. It’s hard to tell, the freezing process is a lot more detrimental to the sample condition than a stasis spell. I’ve duplicated some of the material and I’ll take a closer look at it in my workroom tomorrow. I’m hoping the other two Muggle victims, Teasley and Cuthbertson, haven’t been cremated.”

“Why?” said Iris, looking up.

“Because if I can get a look at those bodies we’ll have a clearer idea of what we’re dealing with.”

“We’re not getting anyone exhumed!” exclaimed Iris.

“I need to see the bodies to get a clearer idea of what happened to them and to rule them in or out of the enquiry,” reiterated Draco.

“It’s not happening,” Iris responded bluntly. “For one, we’d need Home Office sanction and we’ve got nothing that doesn’t involve Funny Business to put to them as grounds. For another thing, we’d need permission from next of kin and I’m not putting the families through that kind of trauma.”

“Not even to find out what happened to their loved ones?” Draco snapped back and Harry surreptitiously reinforced the silencing charm on their table.

“But they’re not going to find out, are they?” hissed Iris angrily, leaning over the table. “All this! Wizards! If it’s one of your lot, there isn’t going to be a trial. There isn’t going to be a conviction or any closure for the families.”

“Maybe not,” conceded Draco, “but that doesn’t mean they can’t get justice.”

“That is what I’m hoping,” said Iris, reining in her temper but remaining emphatic. “But it does mean having consideration in how the investigation is handled. I’m not going to rake it all up for them again and raise their hopes by digging up their mum or whoever, when, whether we are successful or not, they are never going to know about it.”

“They wouldn’t have to know about it. I only want a quick look.”

“No!” bit out Iris between clenched teeth. “I am not going grave robbing with you!” Turning to Harry and raising an admonitory finger, she continued, “You are not going to let him do anything like that, right!?”

“No,” said Harry, raising his hands in a placatory manner. “Just calm down, you two. Let’s just finish our lunch and then talk about what the next options are.”

Lunch was concluded in a somewhat tense silence. When he’d finished Draco drew his chair back from the table. “I’m going to head back to the office to see if I can’t get a better sense of the potions used from the samples I took. I’ll see you later, Harry. Iris.” He nodded to them both and swept out.

“Unauthorized samples,” muttered Iris, under her breath, though Harry didn’t hear her as he watched Draco leave. He wondered if he should go after him and if there was anything he could say that would ease the rigid set of Draco’s shoulders and the tight, withdrawn expression on his face.

“Um, Iris,” began Harry, but Iris just glared at him. Then she let out a deep breath. 

“I’m sorry, Harry. I know these are difficult working conditions for all of us. Look, I need to fill in the Commissioner and confirm that this joint investigation will need to continue. He won’t be happy. Let’s meet for breakfast, yeah?”

“All right,” said Harry smiling ruefully. “There’s a Costa just round the corner from the telephone box, did you see it?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you there at eight. You can do your thing,” and Iris waggled her fingers, “so no one can hear us and we can all talk.”

Iris dropped a twenty pound note on the table. “You’ve got normal money haven’t you?” she queried.

“Yes. I’ll cover Draco and myself,” replied Harry. Iris turned to go. “Iris, could you … could you try not to try not to use the term normal to mean the Muggle world. It sort of implies that we’re …” and Harry gestured to himself and Draco’s vacated chair, “…abnormal.”

Iris blinked, the words “well you’re not normal” hanging unspoken in the air. She sighed again, “I don’t like the term Muggle. It sounds … pathetic, but I take your point and I’m, ah, sorry if I have been offensive. 

“You’ve got to understand, there’s a big difference between knowing that Magic exists, in an abstract sort of way, and being confronted with the reality of it, like today.”

“I can understand that,” Harry replied with a nod. “Well. See you tomorrow, Iris.”

“Bye, Harry.”

*

When Harry got back to the Ministry, the door of Draco’s workroom was closed. Harry knocked. He knocked louder and hearing no reply he went in. The extractor fan roaring loudly and Draco was crouched before the Floo.

“What have we got to talk _about_ , for Merlin’s sake?” he was saying, or rather shouting. There was a pause when, presumably, the other person replied. Harry tried to attract Draco’s attention. “Well, I don’t particularly care to,” Draco continued. “I was under the distinct impression that the termination of our relationship would mean we didn’t have to see one another! Now, leave me alone, I’m working!”

Draco slammed the connection closed and turned back to the room. “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in,” he said blandly, the anger on his face swiftly erased in favour of the still, neutral expression he had worn most of the day. That Draco should use his polite, public mask when there was only Harry in the room stung Harry more than he cared to examine. 

“You and Benjy broke up?” the words were out of Harry’s mouth before he could think better of it.

“We broke up over a week ago. He seems to have rather a weak grasp of what the process entails.” Draco pulled on a pair of goggles with one magnified lens that made his right eye bulge ominously in a manner strangely reminiscent of Madeye Moody and turned away, effectively terminating the conversation.

“Um, how’s it going?” asked Harry, gesturing at the work bench.

Draco made a noncommittal grunt. Harry pulled up a tall stool. After a few minutes, Draco appeared to forget he was there. His face relaxed into a look of steady concentration, as he wove his wand. Small particles emanated from the glass vial he was holding, some of them glowing gold, others green and blue. The gold flecks were drawn up into the extractor fan, whilst Draco guided the others into further vials. Holding the first of the vials up to the light Draco peered into it, muttering an incantation and the blue light intensified. He began to send the particles sweeping from one vial to another, murmuring as he did so and watching their path intently. A small green quill danced busily over parchment, taking notes.

Harry decided he didn’t spend enough time watching Draco Malfoy work.

Finally, Draco set down the vials, removed the goggles, slumping in a stool. The energy seemed to drain out of him as his concentration relaxed. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Well, it’s good news for you, Potter,” he said over his shoulder.

“I thought you’d forgotten I was here?” said Harry, smiling.

“I always know when you’re here,” Draco replied. He quirked a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes, which remained tired. “The potion combinations in Berry’s stomach are a match for those found in Wilfing and Leach. Nothing dramatic: a few sedatives, nutrition, blood replenishment. Congratulations, your hunch was right. You’ll be in on the murder enquiry, back on live cases, like you wanted.”

“You’ll be on it too,” said Harry.

“I’m not an Auror. I’ll be sent back to Mysteries and this whole sorry charade of a Cold Case Unit can be forgotten about. It was only ever about Dawlish shafting you and now you’ve neatly sidestepped that, there’s no way he can keep you mothballed here.”

“We still need you on the case,” Harry maintained.

“Well, I don’t want anything to do with it,” said Draco frowning. “I think, for once in his life, Dawlish had a point. Opening ourselves up like this to the Muggle world is too dangerous and I can do without spending my working day being treated like a freak.”

For the second time that day Harry found himself reaching out to comfort or reassure. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. He was going to have to get a hold of himself before Draco picked up on his need to pet him every time he got upset. 

Instead, his voice came out a touch sharper than he meant. “There isn’t any danger and you need to understand, it’s been a hell of a day for Iris. She apologised after you’d gone. I’m sure our working relationship will get easier.”

“I’m sure it will,” Draco replied snidely and with some innuendo Harry couldn’t place. “You’ll get along better without me. All coppers together. And of course it’s fucking dangerous. You saw her reaction and she’s known about us all her life. You’ve seen her and her father, struggling to accept that there were people who could just erase memories, blow up a street, kill, with a wave of their wand. 

“Who else now knows about us? Who in the Muggle Security Forces has Kingsley had to remind about us? If there wasn’t a contingency plan in place to neutralise the threat we pose, there’s one being written now. We’re looking into a case of serial homicide, perpetrated by a Wizard or Wizards on Muggle victims, for Merlin’s sake. All the cases we’ve been working on – the Statute of Secrecy leaks like a sieve. Just what do you think it would take?”

“You’re over reacting,” said Harry, but a part of him had to concede that Draco had a point.

“It’s easier for you Half Bloods. You exist in their world, you could slip back into it if you had to. There are so bloody many of them!”

“Hey,” said Harry slipping of the stool and putting his hand on Draco’s shoulder. He could feel the rigid tension of Draco’s back. “Nothing’s going to happen. That’s why we’re working with Iris, to manage things.”

“She looks at me like I’m a monster. I’m perfectly normal,” Draco protested.

“Draco, you’re not normal,” said Harry fondly, “you’re exceptional.” 

Draco snorted, but a small smile, the first Harry had seen all day, began to play over his lips. Harry could practically hear Hermione’s voice in his head. “Harry James Potter, that was a _line_. You just used _a line_ on Draco Malfoy!” Damned right he had and, what’s more, it seemed to have worked.

“Come for that drink we never managed,” Harry urged.

Draco let out a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. “I could certainly use some serious application of alcohol after today!” The smile he turned on Harry then was glittering and dangerous. “Come and get wasted with me, Harry.”

“Woah,” Harry laughed happily, “I can’t get wasted, I have to meet Iris for breakfast at eight, but …”

Draco’s face had slammed closed again and he turned to gather up his things. “Well, I’ll call Blaise then. I won’t be in tomorrow. I’ve done what I can with what I’ve been _permitted_ of the Muggle remains. It’s all in the notes. You can take it along to Longbottom if you like, but the ingredients are all fairly run of the mill, I don’t think you’ll have much luck tracing the maker.”

“Draco!” Harry appealed to Draco’s back.

“There isn’t anything more I can help you with, unless a fresh body turns up. There’s something else I want to work on before the Cold Case Unit is shut down and I’m assigned elsewhere. I’ll be over at home if you want me. Good luck with the case, Potter. See you around.”

“Draco!” But Draco had turned on the spot and vanished.

“Fuck, fuckety, fuck! Harry exhaled to the empty workroom.

*

Harry was still in a piss poor mood when he met Iris the next morning.

“No Draco this morning?” 

Harry shook his head.

“And what’s the matter with you? Lover’s tiff?” Harry scowled so fiercely at this that Iris held up her hands, “Sorry, sorry! I’m just mucking about. I didn’t sleep too well myself.”

The settled themselves with their coffees round a corner table and Harry discreetly cast a Muffliato around them. Iris slide a slightly battered mobile phone over to him.

“Here. You need a way to reach me during this operation. It’s an old one of my sister’s. I’ve programmed it with my number. You just turn it on and press the down arrow, then the green phone icon, OK?”

“OK. Thanks.”

“I don’t know if it will work where there’s too much magic about. I remember my aunt telling my mum and dad there was no point buying electronic gifts for my cousins. We’ll try it though.”

Harry repeated his thanks and slid the phone into his pocket. “Draco has analysed the potions residue and he’s confirmed the traces are consistent across both Wilfing, Leach and Berry. As far as the quality of the samples allow, he’s also pretty sure they are consistent across all the others, including Teasley and Cuthbertson too.”

“All of them?” asked Iris incredulously. “That’s nineteen bodies on our side, plus Wilfing and Leach on yours!” Harry nodded. 

“What the fuck’s going on Harry? Why is there only one Wizard victim?”

“We don’t know who sixteen of your bodies are,” reasoned Harry. “If you’ve got no matches across your Missing Persons files, there’s a good chance that they are Magical too.”

“If they are, then why Teasley, Cuthbertson and Berry?”

“I don’t know. I’ll get Records and Services on to it, but it won’t be fast. Our record systems are not as sophisticated as yours. It will be a real job looking for matches based on the descriptions of your unidentified corpses.”

“Not as sophisticated how?”

“Paper. Shelves and shelves of paper files.”

“Seriously?”

“They’re colour coded,” Harry offered with a shrug.

“No wonder you were so excited about HOLMES,” replied Iris, smiling.

“I’ll probably end up having to send an Auror team to go through the files. That will mean formally enlarging the Wilfing/Leach investigation team, which will mean getting it by my boss, which will basically be a giant pain in the arse. While I get the ball moving on that, I think it would also be productive if we were able to re-interview the relatives of the known victims.”

Iris frowned and Harry continued, “I know you aren’t keen on getting their hopes up and I can understand that. We can be sensitive about it. Call it a review of unresolved cases. Emphasize that we really care, but that we don’t have much hope.”

“OK, so long as we make no mention of new evidence,” said Iris. “We can play up the Family Liaison side of things. Offer counselling. Your lot can pay for that, can’t they? It’s the least you can do.”

“Yeah, we can do that.”

“We’ll need to make appointments. Let’s head into my office now,” said Iris, rising. “What’s happening with Draco? He’s a bit too posh to be convincing as Family Liaison. Or a copper for that matter.”

“He’s, um … I think he’s off the case.”

Iris paused and looked back at him. “I guess yesterday was difficult for him too. He looked almost as uncomfortable down at the station as I felt in your place.”

Harry gave her a rueful smile and shrug.

“I probably shouldn’t have told him about my Taser,” said Iris, guiltily.

“What?” said Harry, his voice rising sharply.

“It was when you left the lab to get us those teas. I think he was trying to apologise or something, because those people were killed by a Wizard. But he was mentioning my cousins too. I don’t know. He was trying to reassure me, I think, but it got on my nerves, like he was implying that non-Magical people were all helpless, vulnerable victims. That I couldn’t look after myself. I have a thing about that. Anyway, I showed him my Taser and told him that anyone pointing one of those little sticks at me was going to get zapped.”

“You did what? Wait, you’ve been issued with a Taser?”

“Well, as far as we’re concerned, you’re all carrying deadly weapons all the time. It’s just for my safety and the safety of the general public. Evens things up a bit.”

“This is supposed to be a friendly joint operation!” Harry protested.

“It is!”

Harry took a deep breath. “Is there anything else you want to tell me, in the interests of full disclosure and a harmonious working relationship?”

“In the interest of full disclosure …”, Iris bit her lip. “After I told the Commissioner about yesterday … there’s an SCO19 unit on standby for the duration of this enquiry.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s … a van full of men with guns.” Seeing Harry’s face, Iris added, “They’re highly trained. They hardly ever shoot anyone!”

The stood staring at one another in the middle of Costa.

“We need to sort this case out fast, don’t we?” said Harry finally.

“Yeah,” said Iris nodding. “We really do.”

*

The next couple of days passed quickly. Iris and Harry re-interviewed the families of the known victims, including Wilfing and Leach. Harry could detect no sign that any of the Muggles were anything other than what they seemed. It was always a depressing business interviewing the bereaved, especially when you had nothing new to offer them and your promises that you would do your utmost to bring the killer to justice rang hollow. Even if it was true, Iris was right, they would never know about it.

Harry saw no sign of Draco. He meant to go and check up on him, especially when Hermione had given him a nudge in the queue in the Ministry cafeteria. 

“What’s up with Malfoy?”

“What?” Harry had replied, non-plussed.

“He Flooed my office at 11pm last night. He’s lucky I was still there. He was looking sort of wild and asking some very complex questions about Arithmantic algorithms. He called me Granger and usually he is completely assiduous about calling me Mrs Granger-Weasley. What’s he working on?”

“Well …,” Harry was strangely reluctant to admit that he didn’t know. “Since when did you and Draco chit chat about Arithmancy anyway.”

“We don’t chit chat, but our paths have crossed from time to time. He was very helpful when I was working on the Lycanthrope Emancipation Act. Even when being in the same room as Bill always made him go a funny greeny-white colour.”

“He’s working on something related to the Cold Case Unit. I don’t know how it’s going. I should catch up with him on that,” said Harry. 

It was 2am when Harry was woken from sleep by Ron’s Patronus, racing around his bed and shouting at him. He leapt out of bed and through long-trained reflexes began pulling on his clothes, whilst still half asleep. 

“Get up Harry! There’s been another kidnapping! An emergency Floo connection to the scene has been established at the department.”

With a crack, Harry turned and Apparated into the Auror department, which was humming with the energy of an emergency response. Morris directed him towards the relevant Floo and Harry took hold of it and stumbled as he was set down in a small suburban living room.

“That you, Harry?” he heard Ron call from the open door of the kitchen extension and he headed over.

“What’s up?”

“Victim taken from here, about twenty minutes ago,” Ron replied, his face grave. “A Squib named Miranda Philpotts. She had her niece, a witch, Hetty Allthwaite, eight years old, staying with her. I don’t think the kidnappers realised. Hetty heard a crack of Apparition and came downstairs. She saw the over-turned chair in the kitchen and couldn’t find her auntie anywhere. She’d read those pieces in the _Quibbler_ about Opal Leach and missing Squibs, so, smart girl, she immediately contacted her mother with her two-way mirror. 

“The duty Auror was on the scene within ten minutes. He called me as he knew I was working the Wilfing/Leach case.”

Harry looked about him. It looked like a perfectly ordinary Muggle home. Two clean plates, two mugs and some cutlery drying on the rack by the sink. He could see a single chair turned over and a pot of violets spilling their earth onto the floor. Nothing was new. The kitchen lino had definitely seen better days. He clenched his fists.

“Shit, Ron, they could be anywhere by now!”

“Yeah, well we could be getting a break here,” Ron said and Harry noticed how he was practically bouncing on his heels with suppressed energy. “Hetty’s underage. Robards has gone to drag someone from the Improper Use of Magic Office out of bed. With any luck the Apparition and Disapparition will have triggered the Trace. This is a Squib household in a Muggle, neighbourhood. There shouldn’t be any magic here.”

“Shit!” said Harry, sharing Ron’s excitement. “Shit, we need this!”

“Tell me about it!” said Ron, grinning.

“You’re Harry Potter,” came a small voice from behind him.

“Shhh, come back, sweetie!”

Harry turned to meet the steady regard of bright, rather red-rimmed, brown eyes. The little girl had unruly brown hair and a focussed expression that reminded him of his first meeting with Hermione. The girl’s mother pulled her back against her body and wrapped her arms about her, attempting to usher her back towards the hall.

“Are you going to find Auntie Andy?” Hetty asked.

Harry dropped down onto his haunches, so he could look her in the face. “We’re going to do our very best to, yes.”

“The paper said Squibs who go missing get murdered, like that lady.” Harry didn’t know what to say. 

“Daddy says it’s not as if they were much good to anybody. He doesn’t like me staying with Auntie Andy, but mummy lets me come anyway, if I don’t talk about it.”

“Shhh,” said Hetty’s mother faintly.

“But I don’t care that Auntie Andy’s a Squib,” said Hetty firmly, twisting to look up at her mother.

“I don’t care that she’s a Squib either, darling,” said her mother and looked fiercely down at Harry, her face twisted with the effort not to cry in front of her daughter. “Mr Potter and the Aurors are going to get her back for us. Aren’t you?”

“You can rely on us to do our absolute best, Mrs Allthwaite,” said Ron. 

“And when we find her,” added Harry, “it will be all down to you, Hetty. You acted very quickly and you gave us the best possible chance of finding your Auntie. I’m sure your mummy is very proud of you.”

At that moment, Robard’s hawk Patronus swooped into the room. “Ronald,” it barked, “I’ve got an address for you …”.

Harry and Ron Apperated to the industrial estate indicated and made their way silently into the building. Ron cast a nonverbal Homenum Revelio and nodded to indicate they should proceed up the line of crates to their left. Cautiously turning a corner, they could see nearby beneath the dim emergency lighting, two burly figures stooped over a slumped form.

Harry turned to give Ron the signal and perhaps light reflecting off his glasses caught the figure’s eye, because before they could move a cry of _Avada Kedavra_ and a jet of green light shot towards them.

They ducked in time to see the first man disappear with a crack of Apparition. The second figure, hampered by his grip on the body in his arms was slower, and even as he too began to turn into his Apparation they were launching themselves across the space towards him.

Harry, with his Seeker’s reflexes, was faster. He felt a touch of sleeve beneath his fingertips, latched on to the arm beneath and threw himself upwards, twisting into course of the fleeing man’s Apparation. 

There was the familiar, disorienting blur as the world flew past. Harry struggled to maintain his one handed grip. He heard a shriek of pain, felt the tug and clawed at thin air. 

Falling, he had to use every ounce of concentration he had to twist himself back along the path of Apparation to the warehouse.

He landed badly, falling to his knees. 

“Merlin, Harry! Are you all right?” Ron’s white face was in front of him and hands tore at his shirt, which, looking down, he noticed was splattered with blood.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” he gasped, getting his breath back. “Not mine. It’s not mine. I lost him. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. He Splinched himself.”

“Shit, you gave me a bloody heart attack!” said Ron, sitting back on his heels. “Ah, fuck! Well at least you’re all right.”

Ron turned and scrambled back to the body of a woman on the floor a few feet away. Harry dragged himself quickly over.

“Is she dead?”

“No, not dead. I can’t wake her though. I’m calling backup.” Ron’s Patronus raced off.

Within minutes the warehouse was full of MLE and Auror personnel. Harry and Ron were wrapped in blankets and Apparated to St Mungo’s to be checked over. It took a fair while for Harry to persuade the healers in attendance that, despite the blood, he was actually fine. 

When he was free, Harry immediately went and tracked down the healers who were looking after Miranda Philpotts. She was still unconscious, but stable. They’d said that it looked like she had been Stunned and then dosed with a powerful sedative potion. It would be some time before she woke up. As far as they could tell at this stage, there should be nothing else wrong with her.

He was thanking the healer when he was knocked back a step by a small figure cannoning into him and flinging her arms around his waist. He looked down into the blotchy, tear-stained face of Hetty Allthwaite, her hair now standing up around her head in a crazy bush.

“Thank you for bringing my auntie back, Mr Potter!”

“You are very welcome, Hetty,” said Harry smiling and setting her back on her own feet. “The healers tell me that they think she’ll be right as rain when she wakes up.”

Hetty beamed damply up at him. “Mummy says Auntie Andy is going to come and stay with us when the healers say she can go. She says, if daddy doesn’t like it, he can move back in with Grandma!”

“Um, that’s, uh, great,” replied Harry, slightly less sure of his ground here. 

By this time, Mrs Allthwaite had caught up with her daughter and taking her hand, drew her gently away from Harry. “Thank you so much, Auror Potter,” she said, swallowing hard. “I love my sister and since my marriage I haven’t seen as much of her as I should. And when I thought … well. It puts things in perspective, doesn’t it? Thank you for giving me …” and she stuttered to a halt, biting back tears.

“It’s all right, Mrs Allthwaite, I understand,” said Harry, awkwardly patting her arm. “You and Hetty should probably go home to rest now. Miranda’s in safe hands here.” Mrs Allthwaite nodded vigorously at him, her face contorted somewhere between a broad smile and shattering sobs, and she led Hetty away.

*

Harry managed to make it back to the Cold Case offices without further incident. It was now nearly 7am. Riffling in the draw of his desk, he pulled out the mobile phone, turned it on and tried to remember the instructions Iris had given him.

Iris picked up almost at once. The line was so crackling with static that he could barely hear her. “That you, Harry?”

“Yes. There’s been an incident in the night. Attempted kidnapping. We recovered the victim, but the two kidnappers got away. Could have been the guys we want.”

“I can’t hear a damn word you’re saying.” Iris shouted over the static, “You’re at your Ministry, right?”

“Yes,” Harry bellowed back

“I’ll meet you at the phone box. Give me twenty minutes.”

Harry tried to affirm this, but the phone popped loudly and went dead. They’d have to come up with some other way of keeping in touch.

Harry scrubbed his hands over his face and slumped in his chair for a few minutes. The adrenaline of the night had well and truly left his system, leaving him feeling washed out and light headed. Checking his watch, he made his way up to the phone box.

He could hear the siren of Iris’s approach and she swept up in police car, blue lights flashing. She kept the car waiting as she went over to talk to Harry. Harry relayed the course of the night’s events.

Iris swore under her breath, “I’m assuming it isn’t possible to trace the direction of their onward journey from the warehouse?”

“No, it was only because there was a Trace on the little girl. We’ve got no further leads, if Philpotts can’t tell us anything when she wakes up,” said Harry, dejectedly.

“Bollocks to that. You don’t know what we’ve got yet. I need the location of that warehouse. I’m calling up a team now. You make sure your guys are all out of there. You lot can’t do Scene of Crime for shit. I’m assuming that’s not your blood?”

“No. The guy I had a hold of Splinched himself.”

“Excellent!,” and she leaned back into the car. After some rifling the officer driving the car handed her a clear evidence bag. “Give me your shirt,” Iris directed.

Harry stripped off the shirt and deposited it in the bag. He was left standing, shirtless and shivering in the cold morning light. Iris looked at him critically.

“You can’t go anywhere like that. Go home. Get some sleep. Call me when you’re back in. You look like shit.” She sealed the evidence bag and signed the seal, handing it over to the other officer to do the same. Then she took the address that Harry had written down and got back into the car. Harry didn’t have the energy to tell her about the phone. He’d figure out a way of getting in touch tomorrow, later today, whatever.

Going home seemed like an excellent idea - come back in, in a few hours. He just needed to sign out with Robards before disappearing off. Harry wondered back to his own offices to pick up a spare shirt and opening the door, saw Draco standing over a pile of files, his wand raised, muttering furiously. Either side of his head two parchments floated, with quills busily scribbling across them.  
Harry’s entrance startled Draco and his concentration broke. The quills and parchments dropped to the floor and he swore.

“Hi, Draco. Sorry,” said Harry, limply gesturing to the parchments.

“Where’s your shirt, Potter?” asked Draco sharply. 

“You’re in early?”

“Is that blood on your face?” Draco cut across him and came swiftly round the table to stand in front of Harry. He swiped his thumb along Harry’s cheek and kept it there, cradling Harry’s face and scanning him for injuries.

“I’m all right,” Harry managed. Draco was standing very close to him, staring at him intently, and Harry suddenly felt a lot more naked than he had standing on that street corner.

“What’s happened?”

“Someone was taken, but the alarm was raised and we got her back.”

“A Squib?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Makes sense.”

“I nearly got one of her abductors too. I was so close. I had hold of him, but I … I lost him!” and all the frustration and disappointment Harry hadn’t been allowing himself to feel bled into his voice and he noticed his fists were clenched and his nails cutting into his palms.

“You’ll get him next time,” he heard Draco say in a low voice, “you always do.” He felt arms come up around him and he let himself be pulled against the hard planes of Draco’s chest. Draco’s shirt was so soft and he smelt so nice, Harry just let himself rest his head on Draco’s shoulder and take a few deep breaths.

There was a knock on the door and Simon Finknottle poked his head round and squeaked with surprise. Harry and Draco sprang apart, though Draco managed to give Harry a hearty slap on the back, to underline that they had just been sharing a manly hug.

“Oh, sorry!” Simon giggled, “Only Head Auror Dawlish is in, Harry, and he wants to see you at once.”

“Right oh. Thanks, Simon!” said Harry with forced cheerfulness.

“You need to wash your face,” Draco observed. “And, though I personally find the vision of you without a shirt on brightens my morning considerably,” here Draco’s gaze turned somewhat hooded and appreciative, “I’m not sure it will have the same effect on Dawlish. Here.” He turned to the cupboards that ran along the wall and pulled out a spare shirt.

Harry was going to say he had a spare shirt of his own in his locker, when it occurred to him that Draco’s shirt might smell as nice as the one he was wearing.

“What have you been doing, anyway, these last few days?” he asked, going over to the sink and splashing his face.

“You know the HOLMES system? Well, I’ve been working on the castings that would create a similar Arthimantic framework to allow our records to be searched and cross referenced in the same way.”

“What?” said Harry, staring at him stupidly.

“I’ve only just begun. But elements of it should be possible and it’s got to be better than what we’ve got now.”

“You’re inventing HOLMES for the Wizarding world?” Harry asked, grinning broadly.

“Well,” said Draco looking down. “I had to ask Mrs Granger-Weasley a few things.”

“Were you really so pissed off that the Muggle world had a better records system than ours that you had to go and invent one for us?” Harry teased him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Potter. There is still a lot to be worked out. Anyway, I thought you … I thought this case would need it.”

“You are seriously fucking fantastic, Draco!”

Draco’s cheeks pinked slightly with pleasure and Harry had the sudden flash, that if he was Benjy, he’d be floo calling Draco every hour on the hour.

Draco was suddenly standing close to him again. Harry’s fingers fumbled the buttons on his shirt and Draco brushed his hands away to complete the job, making more of a business than necessary of straightening his collar and smoothing the shirt across his shoulders and chest. The warmth of Draco’s hands were turning his knees to jelly and he wondered if he could just rest his head on Draco’s shoulder again.

He could see the dark flecks of grey in the lights of Draco’s eyes. He could kiss him now. He was so close.

He swayed and Draco laughed, low. “You’re falling asleep on your feet!” One of Draco’s hands came to rest on his shoulder.

“I need you back on the investigation, Draco,” Harry said, his voice rough. “I’m not mucking about. We’re a good team. I need your judgement. You were right, this case needs to be solved fast.”

“Thank you,” Draco looked down then back up at Harry. “You better go and see what Dawlish wants, then go home and get some rest. We can talk about this later.” Draco stepped away from him and Harry felt chilly and tired again. He tugged his spare uniform tunic out of his locker as he left the room. 

Draco followed after him, smiling to himself. A number of Aurors also drifted in the same direction, intent on participating in the now time-honoured sport of listening in on Harry’s meetings with Dawlish. Anthony Budgens had even brought Extendable Ears, which he shared around.

“Harry,” Dawlish was saying, mournfully, “I wish you hadn’t felt the need to go over my head. If you’d explained the nature of your concerns more effectively, we could have sorted this out without bothering the Minister for Magic.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” they heard Harry respond tightly.

“Son of a bitch!” Draco heard one of the other Aurors snort.

“I’ve got your report here now. It seems that, for the present instance, it will indeed be necessary to pursue the joint investigation and I am going to rearrange staffing accordingly. I would like you to head up this investigation and maintain your working relationship with this, Detective Inspector Bustamant.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“You know I have always considered you a most able Auror, Harry.”

“Thank you, sir. Sir, will I be able to pick my team?”

“Now, Harry, I have oversight of the whole department and its co-operative responsibilities across the Ministry. Your investigation, whilst important, is not the only case requiring man power. I will assign you the necessary staffing to pursue the investigation as I see fit.”

“I need Draco Malfoy. Sir. His specialist knowledge and …”

Dawlish cut across him. “That’s out of the question, Harry. I will see you get the specialist support, as and when you need it.”

“Sir, I don’t think you understand. The nature of Unspeakable Malfoy’s contribution and the delicate nature of this investigation …”

“I understand perfectly well the delicate nature of this investigation. This Squib business is getting political. There have been questions asked in the Wizangamot. I’m not going to have a bloody Malfoy anywhere near this case. That’s hardly going to lend an investigation into anti-Squib and anti-Muggle activity credibility is it?”

Draco could feel the glances of the Aurors around him.

“Sir, that is complete … Sir, Draco Malfoy is one of our finest young Unspeakables. His commitment to a fair and just post-war society is unquestioned. To allow lingering prejudice to …”.

“Enough, Harry!” shouted Dawlish. “I’m making you head of the combined investigation into the Wilfing and Leach murders, the missing Squibs and these Muggles. I’m giving you the authority to lead on these cases, which you’ve been after all this time. Now either you accept or you need to think carefully about your future within this department, at least while I’m Head Auror, do you understand?”

Nearby, Bones huffed and muttered, “Dawlish won’t stand a chance if he pushes this. The Minister will back Harry and he knows it.” Draco held his breath.

“Sir, I’m asking you … I’m begging you to reconsider …”.

“This is not up for negotiation, Potter!” Dawlish thundered. “I will not have you questioning every damn decision I make. Now are you taking this case or not?”

There was a long pause. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The door to Dawlish’s office opened and Harry walked out looking hollow-eyed. He searched round quickly for Draco.

“Draco, I’m really sorry.”

“It’s all right, Potter. I know how these things go.” Draco quirked a twisted little smile and turned to walk away.

Harry grabbed his arm. “Draco, I promised Kingsley I would find a way to work with Dawlish. I have to take this case.”

“I said, I understand, Harry.”

“I’m sorry, Draco.”

“It’s not important. Thanks for what you said, but I’ll always be just a bloody Malfoy round here.”

Harry watched Draco walk away, back straight and face set in a familiar frozen expression. He raked his hand through his hair. 

He should have kissed Draco when he had the chance. He should have found something else to say. He didn’t know what. All he did know was that it was getting harder and harder to watch Draco turn his back and walk away from him.

_TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK..._


	7. Episode #7: A Paler Shade of White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco gets assigned a new Cold Case partner, while Harry is off with DI Iris Bustamant investigating dead Muggles, Squibs and Wizards. Draco thinks creating a magical HOLMES will get him back working with Harry. However, a bottle brandy and autumn leaves could prove to be the key.

Sweat is gathering at my temples and the nape of my neck as I pull back the makeshift cover and reach for the crystal doorknob. Mother had always insisted upon crystal knobs in the house. She thought they brought good luck. Obviously she was wrong. The moments were increasing when I needed to be wrapped in warmth away from the barren air of London. What this meant after all of these years isn't worth ruminating over. The door cracks open, and I put my weight against the carved door, budging it until I can squeeze in. I take a deep breath inhaling the heavy scent of my lovely belongings which I know are being gnawed by age and vermin. If the boy was here I'd have him take care of the latter, but he won't accompany me anymore. I step in and shut the door. A large spider floats down from the ceiling before me into the narrow pathway. I swat the single strand away with my hand. The spider lands on the ground and scurries under the scrolls scattered about. In my younger years I would have _Accio_ 'd it and pulled its legs off one by one for having the audacity to enter my room. But now, I let it be. I take another deep breath and gaze around the room, what I can see of it.

The room was once my father's library, a room I wasn't allowed to enter as a child. Now it is mine. I know where his desk and cabinets are but anyone else wouldn't know. I put my hand in my robe pocket and finger the edge of the knife. Not hard enough to draw blood as I know that would kill me even in my current state. It was a great find. I bring it out and examine the handle's carving. It's goblin made. I raise my arm and throw it. It strikes something and I hear a squeal, most likely a book and not a mouse. The light from the top edge of the near-opaque windows is getting scarce. I open my purse and take out a torch and light the path. It flickers but works for now. All around me are my finds. Some of the haphazard piles reach to the beams of the ceiling. I come to the end of the room where the mounds of bugbear furs are. I unceremoniously flop down and curl up, pulling a few of the heavy hides over me. They smell of musk. I breathe long slow breaths. Calm spreads over me. When I close my eyes, I can feel the thickness of the air and the warmth the magic brings. It feels alive. For a few minutes I feel alive.

I'm not sure how long I've been asleep, but the room is dark and my torch won't light. My heart is pounding. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins. At first I wonder if I awoke from a nightmare, but then I hear the sound, footsteps coming up the stairs and shuffling down the hallway. A man is whistling. He is wearing boots and doesn't seem worried that anyone is in the house. I swear under my breath, furious that I'm so vulnerable. He stops in front of the carved door. I hear a crackle and then his mumblings. Even in this room, I gather a hint of the scent of pipe smoke. In here nothing terrifies me more than fire. I hear him move again; heavy unequal steps going towards the parlour. I wish I still had the knife.

~~~~~~0~~~~~~

Draco leaned against the elevator wall, his eyes were half shut. He was over an hour late, but then again, who would notice. He could barely remember last night's bender at the Golden Hind. He did remember, however, downing shots as quick as Thomas could pour them— until at some point Thomas stopped pouring. Also, he recalled that Benji wasn't at the bar, for which he was thankful. But he never discovered at the bottom of the bottle of Ogden's why the thought of going back to the Department of Mysteries was so painful. It wasn't that he would miss Potter or that being out in public made a difference. No, he was sure that wasn't it. It was the final humiliation of having his past brought forward once again. Draco reminded himself that he had been happy in his laboratory on level nine where no one thought to bother him or remind him of his youth.

"Level Two," the voice said and the gated door of the elevator opened. He stumbled out. Potter deserved to be working on the ... case. He was good with people and really only he could work with Iris Bustament and the other Muggle police. Draco knew there were probably tell-tale signs that he was different...not _normal_. Well, at least if he was going back to his previous research, he'd do it with his head held high and probably a bit of a raise. It's not like Potter would miss him. Life goes on. A small voice in his brain niggled him that maybe if he could recreate a magical HOLMES he would be called back. He quickly squashed the thought.

Draco walked into the cold case office he and Harry had shared over the previous two months, expecting to see his and Potter's belongings either gone or in boxes. What he didn't expect was Ron Weasley sitting in Harry's chair, feet resting on the desk and drinking coffee from Harry's mug. A box of opened chocolates lay a bit too close to Weasley's boots. One chocolate was missing. 

"What the hell are you doing here, Weasley?" Draco said as he noticed nothing in the room had been changed. He made his way over to the kitchenette, hoping his stash of tea was still in place. The ways he felt and probably looked, he didn't want see others in the cafeteria. Thankfully, everything in the drawer was still in place—except the teapot. He glanced at one of the smaller cauldrons on his lab table in the adjoining room, wondering if Weasley would think it was too gauche to make tea in it. He gave a small snort realising that he really didn't give a shit what Ron thought.

"I work here, Malfoy, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I noticed all right, Weasley, and up until now my luck held out that we didn't have to converse. What I meant is what are you doing in my office?"

Ron laughed at him as he brought his feet back to the ground. He turned the well-worn wooden chair towards Draco. "Well, it looks like your luck took a trip with mine across the pond because of this morning, you and I are partners."

Draco dropped the box of tea. Ron snickered, adding insult to his dilemma. "No way. I'm going back to the Department of Mysteries. There is not a chance in hell I'm working with you. I'll talk to Felicity."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Malfoy, I couldn't agree with you more but Dawlish gave the order and Unspeakable Burrell agreed. They seemed to like the idea that our two departments continue working together. Maybe you and Harry shouldn't have done such a good job."

Draco walked over to Ron and stared down at him. "You do realise that Dawlish did this to get back at Harry?"

Ron stared up at him without a hint of being intimidated in Draco towering over him. He took a long sip of coffee from the Gryffindor mug. "Of course I realise that and that is why you and I are going to put aside our differences this time. We're not going to give the arse the satisfaction of believing he succeeded."

The corners of Draco's mouth turned up. "But we'll be faking it, right?"

"Absolutely, Malfoy. You and I will be the epitome of cordiality and professionalism to anyone and everyone whom we come in contact with. Only here in this little hell of an office, you can go back to being your usual arsehole self."

Draco nodded. "Okay, then. I'll assume you won't mind me having a chocolate. I missed breakfast."

Ron handed the box to Draco. "Help yourself. I learned a long time ago not to eat chocolates that Harry received from a woman. He ate this one before he took off this morning."

"A present? You mean Potter just goes around eating food given to him from women he doesn't know?" Draco asked, setting down the box.

"No, you jerk. He knows her. It was Iris Bustamant. Harry gave her an owl the other day so she could reach him easier when he's here. She sent him this as a thank you gift."

Draco eyed Ron in disbelief. "You think she would try and poison him? That's absurd."

"Not poison, but maybe she put a love potion in there?"

Draco snorted. "Weasley, she's neither a witch nor the type given her profession and by the way, do you think they fancy each other?"

Ron shrugged. "I don't know, but they seem to be pretty chummy."

"You noticed that, too?" An unwelcome image of Harry and Iris snogging filtered into Draco's brain. He started feeling his stomach churn again. He needed to change the subject quickly. "So what _dust case_ are we supposed solve this time?"

"Haven't a clue." Ron returned to sipping his hot coffee. Draco was about to suggest they go down to the Fifth Room and select one on their own, when Parvati appeared at the door.

"Ah there you are, Malfoy. Head Auror Dawlish has been waiting for you," Parvati said as she entered the office. A floating cardboard box followed her, which appeared to have been chewed by something larger than a mouse. She directed the package to Draco's desk with her wand. The desktop appeared to bow under the weight when it landed. She swiped the lid with her hand and then sneezed as a small dust cloud materialized. "Good luck," she said with a tone suggesting no such thing. "Ron, Robards said he'd stop by later today to see how you're surviving with him," she added as she left the room as quick as she came in. 

Draco lifted his wand to make the door slam shut, but he thought better of it given he and Ron's agreement to behave, and it closed in silence.

"Looks like you lost another friend." Ron stood up and strode over to Draco's desk. 

Draco winced as Ron lifted the lid. They'd probably be given some famous case from the 1600s and would surely fail. He expected a vibrant red or deep black file, but instead there were stacks and stacks of documents, a few in shades of gold, but the majority were almost white. 

"Thefts?" Ron said with great disappointment. "We're supposed to solve all of these theft cases? Fucking bastard."

Draco picked up a pile and rummaged through it. Despite the box looking ancient, most files were from the last decade and some even so current that they shouldn't have been filed as cold cases at all. Whoever filed them knew that they wouldn't be dealt with anymore once they had landed in the Fifth Room. Without further hesitation he collected the darkest golden files and perused them. "At least some of these are worth retrieving," he said, groping for some reason to make him feel better. He had thought Dawlish couldn't get any lower by pairing him up with Weasley but this...this was despicable. 

A few hours later, and several cups of tea consumed, they had the files stacked in separate piles. At first they had tried doing it just by colour but soon recognised their folly and began doing it by date and then location. They expanded the table as the piles increased. Draco's thoughts drifted to how HOLMES could probably solve these theft cases by the end of the day. They, instead, would be tied up for weeks tracking this shit down. Both mumbled under their breath at the humiliating task. Draco became impressed that Ron's swearing lexicon was so extensive. He was also pleased that like Harry, Ron didn't forget his meals. Ron had sent an owl out for office delivery from the cafeteria. The owl returned with a picnic basket dangling from its talons. It was filled to the brim with sandwiches, fruit, and butterbeers. Draco also noticed a plate of biscuits. He was apprehensive at first that the meal would turn his stomach again, but the food brought him out of his alcohol induced sickness.

"There's a pattern," Ron mumbled as he ate his second cold lamb sandwich while circling the table and rearranging the piles. They reminded Draco of a chessboard, but with the pieces arranged haphazardly. 

"Not bloody likely. Most of this is probably shopkeepers misplacing items on a busy day. Maybe there are a few burgles, but no pattern. I swear you Aurors see conspiracies and danger in everything. And another thing..."

"Shut it, Malfoy." Ron set down his sandwich down on a cloth napkin and retrieved his wand from his robe pocket. With a few swishes the piles were rearranged. 

Draco squinted at the new arrangement. 

Ron gave a quick grin. 

"If we remove these, you should see the pattern emerge," Ron said while selecting a few light coloured files that made up their own stacks, while leaving a few of the darker-shaded ones. "I think those darker-golden files might be related, so I'm going to leave them for now," he added. And then with a final flick pieces of parchment interspersed in the larger stacks, flew into his hand. He glanced through them and set a few on the light-coloured file stacks he had just made and then the rest made up their own, a larger pile.

Draco continued to squint and then his eyes widened. "That's fucking brilliant," he whispered and picked up the larger stack of the remaining files and rifled through it. "It looks like someone comes into Diagon Alley for a day and goes on a shopping-lifting spree, but what I don't get is why most of what he's stolen isn't worth very much. Why would they want it?" He reached for the other newer small stacks, which were all close to beige, but Ron with a flick of his wand moved them away from Draco's reach; they floated over to Harry's desk. Draco was about to voice his annoyance at Ron's actions but Ron spoke up first. 

"Sorry, but I didn't' want you getting distracted by them. Feel free to look at them later," Ron said. "As for the value of most of the stolen items, I don't know, but you add in the items missing from people's home, and maybe, just maybe we have a magical item collector."

"Damn," he said as he mentally went through the files he'd opened. "I knew that but until you said it, I hadn't put it together, all of these items are magical. It could be more than one person, though, maybe a gang of thieves."

Ron snickered. "You mean like from Oliver Twist?"

"Who the hell is Oliver Twist?"

"Never mind, just a book of Hermione's I read."

"Muggle?"

"Yes, and don't start."

Draco sighed. "I wasn't going to; I am more surprised that you read at all. So what about the other items, the high-priced ones on random days"

"Let's look at what they are."

Draco rounded the table eyeing the remaining single files. He counted nine of them. "An Axminster flying carpet, a Pensieve, enchanted jewellery, goblin armour, I'd say someone has good taste. I have to admit, though, that I'm surprised that these thefts didn't make the Prophet."

"Maybe they did but they probably didn't print what was taken. Most folks don't want other people to know what treasures they possess. So either these thefts are related and our thief has dual purposes or we have two thieves." 

"Hmm," Draco said. He still didn't buy all of it. "But wouldn't an Auror be suspicious if a lot of items were all reported missing on the same day from these establishments or from the people who were shopping?"

Ron snorted. "Malfoy, the golden files, unless it's something like these nine, are put to the bottom of the priority list. We're still short-handed at the MLE. I'm sure if it repeated day-after-day, they would have done something about it."

"And the other items you removed aren't part of it?" Draco asked more for conformation than for not knowing.

"I don't think so," Ron answered. "I'm sure there are probably some missing magical items that aren't related in the stacks but at this point I'm not ready to remove any more." 

Draco wanted to ask how Ron knew how the files on Harry's desk didn't belong, but for now he'd let it go. "So where do we go from here?" he asked instead.

"Um, Harry said you have the capability to retrieve memories. Some kind of spell?" Ron asked with his mouth full of sandwich again. Draco wondered how Harry and Hermione could bear to be around him when he was eating.

"That spell? It's just a projection of Legilimency. So it only works when there is a major incident, something life changing, like being attacked by Dementors or a terrorist incident. It doesn't work for a shopping trip to Diagon Alley." Draco watched Ron pick up and move the stacks of files into different patterns. He wondered what else Harry had told him about their investigations and if he knew about his attempt to create a HOLMES database. 

"Well then, I guess we do some basic detective work and start interviewing people."

"We should start with this pile then dealing with the trinket carts."

Ron nodded and then took the stack of files from Draco and looked through them with purpose. "Actually we should begin with the usual suspects like Mundungus and then pay some visits to the street vendors as you suggested, since they seem to have been hit the hardest. And then that I'd like to check-out the junk shops and Borgin and Burkes to see if there is any fencing is going on with the more expensive items."

Draco winced at the thought of stepping foot into Burgin and Burkes; he hadn't done so since before the war when he bought the opal necklace and he hoped he never would have to again.

"You got a problem with that plan? You look like you're about to sick," Ron asked, looking a bit too smug for Draco's liking.

"No," Draco responded quickly. "I—I'm just still recovering from last night. I'll be fine. Let's just go."

~~~~~~0~~~~~~

"You're not pinning this on me! Haven't been in that business for years," Mundungus Fletcher spurted out along with the foam from the pint Draco had paid for. They were in the corner trying to be inconspicuous but everyone in the Leaky Cauldron, while pretending to mind their own, were keeping an ear open. It wasn't everyday that an Auror and an Unspeakable came into the establishment together on official business. Draco sipped on his cup of tea, one of the strongest brewed he'd had outside of his own home. Susan had obviously taken pity on him. Not knowing how long the interview would last, he sipped slowly. Ron didn't seem to care and immediately downed half a butterbeer. He was doing serious damage to a plate of chips before they'd even got settled in.

"Dung, calm the shit down. I'm just asking if you've seen any of this stuff." Ron slipped him a piece of parchment with the list of the most expensive items along with the location and dates. 

Mundungus took a look at the paper with some diligence. Draco glanced around. Maybe Neville was stopping in for lunch to visit his wife. The potions in the bodies he and Harry had investigated were still on his mind. Maybe Neville could detect a nefarious ingredient they missed. And then there were the strange puncture marks. Draco stopped his mind from wondering about problems for a case that wasn't his anymore. 

"I don't know. Maybe the fancy hides, but that was a few years ago. They were at one of the stalls at Beltane. People didn't know what they had but I didn't take them. Some wizard and witch in line before me bought them all for a song. I guess the seller must have regretted the transaction."

Draco thought more likely the seller had been put under a Confundus charm.

"Did you recognise the wizard or witch who bought them?"

"No, they had some funny holiday masks on."

"Anything else? Recognise any of the other stolen items?" Ron asked.

"Nah, nothing worth my time. I mean that is if I was still interested. You going to finish those chips?"

Ron shook his head and slid them over to Mundungus, who promptly picked up the plate and walked over to the bar and sat on a stool.

"Well that went well. Some couple purchased hides at Beltane. Shall we take a good guess and say the proprietor realised he got taken and reported them missing. What's his name?" Draco took a longer sip of tea knowing the interview was over and he could hit the loo before leaving for the vendor stalls and junk shop. He was intentionally not trying to think of going into Knocturne Alley.

Ron reached into his briefcase and withdrew the original file. "There's no name listed," Ron said as he passed the it to Draco. "I'm guessing he reported anonymously. He just wanted the lucky buyers caught."

"Are any of the animal hides Class A?" 

Ron grabbed the report and scanned the list of hides. "The Jarvey and Pogrebin are tradable, and the Graphorn is Class B, but, I'd have to check with Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures about the bugbears?" 

Draco couldn't help but laugh. "You know their fakes and just common bear hides. Not like they exist or anything."

Ron set down the report. A wide-smile crossed his face. "Family rumour has it that when Charlie, my brother, comes across a boggart that is what persona it takes on."

A small warm feeling coursed through Draco. He knew what it was. It was the first feeling of when you start bonding with someone. This wasn't going to happen. Weasley was a duffer, but, then again, he had seen a pattern among the files, which Draco hadn't. However, there might not actually be a pattern; this could all be just a wild goose chase. Draco thought of HOLMES once again. He set down his empty cup of tea and since Neville hadn't shown up he made motions of preparing to leave. A cool breeze blew in as the back door opened. Draco instinctively turned his head to see who was coming in from that entrance. His stomach turned as Potter was leading Iris Bustamant through the door. He quickly bannished the sense of being disgusted that Potter was letting in a Muggle into the Leaky Cauldron. He then noticed Iris was laughing and Draco couldn't help but see that it became her. She looked softer than he'd seen her on the days before. Harry's eyes were directed on her as if fully entranced by her reaction to learning that the magical world was just a door away. Draco lowered his eyes. He did not want to see more.

"Harry," Ron yelled as he stood up and waved them over. His butterbeer wobbled. Draco grabbed it before it toppled over.

"Ron? Draco? What are you two doing here?" Harry asked. Without looking up, Draco could tell that Harry had not heard about their new assignment.

"You won't believe it, mate, but the bastard teamed up Malfoy and me. We're supposed to solve golden files from over the years. Most of the reports are barely yellow."

Harry started laughing. Draco wanted to punch him, just like in the olden days. "Shut it, Potter," he said as he looked up at Harry and Iris, holding there gaze as they stared at him. Iris' smile had turned to a questioning grin. Draco knew she had no idea about their past. He turned his focus straight onto Harry. "We're only going through this charade because we know Dawlish couldn't get to you directly. Weasley and I are going to solve these piddly-arse cases, which the Ministry couldn't give two shits about, but, we're going to be good little coppers as the Muggles call them and do our job, which in turn will make us all look good, or at least you two."

"Fuck, I'm sorry, Draco," Harry said, sounding appropriately chagrined. "I'm sorry, Ron. I know this is going to be tough— tough for both of you."

"Damn straight, Potter. It was bad enough that they put us together, but now..." Draco said without finishing. Harry's face had dropped. 

"Wait, you two don't get along?" Iris asked, looking back and forth between Harry and Draco and then began to laugh. 

"What's so funny?" Harry asked.

Iris shook her head. "I made a bet with dad that you two were breaking the rules."

"Breaking the rules?" Draco asked. 

"Yeah, you know how partners aren't supposed to date."

"Date?" Harry said. "You thought Draco and I were a couple?"

"Sure, it seemed obvious to me. Don't you think so, Ron? It is Ron, right?"

Ron thinned his lips as if in an attempt to hold back words he knew shouldn't be spoken. 

"No, Iris, Harry and I are not a couple," Draco said. "But I admit, I find it humorous as I thought you two might fancy one another."

Iris laughed again. "Really? Me fancy Harry? No, not my type. I don't hook up with anyone close to my field-of-work."

Harry sighed. "Now that we've established that neither of you want to date me, can we move onto business?"

"I didn't say you weren't my type," Draco blurted out. "I—I mean not that you are, but, oh hell, you're right, Potter, time to get back to our cases. Your's all important, mine all trivial." Draco knew he was probably turning red, or maybe it was a whiter shade of his usual pale. Draco glanced over to Ron, who slid back down in his seat. He didn't look well either.

"Well actually, Draco, I'm glad we ran into you. Have you made any progress on your network? I think it would come in handy seeing what the connections are between these Muggle bodies and the Squibs. We don't seem to be getting very far."

Draco picked up his tea cup and drunk the last of the dregs. He should have worked on HOLMES last night instead of wallowing in self pity. Up until this moment, though, he hadn't been sure he would continue. "It's coming along; I'll let you know when it's ready to be tested but I'm sure you'll solve the case without it."

"Okay, we were just going to have a bite. My turn to treat Iris and also to see if Neville will be dropping by."

It was nice to know that he and Harry were still on the same wave length even if they weren't on other matters. "Well enjoy. Weasley and I need to go. Interviews and such are waiting." Draco stood up and thankfully Ron followed suit. Draco didn't think he could sit through a meal with Potter after what had stumbled out of his mouth. If Bustamant hadn't been there, he might have seriously considered doing an Obliviate on both Aurors.

~~~~~~0~~~~~~

The stiff autumn breeze felt good against his face. Golden and red leaves collected on the edges of the worn cobblestone path winding through Diagon Alley. It was busy during lunchtime but people cleared the way when they spotted an Auror and Unspeakable in their midst. Many greeted them or at least greeted Ron.

They made their way past Quality Quidditch Supplies. Draco winced at the large poster of Puddlemere United displayed in the window. Benjy winked at him. Draco looked away and towards Gringotts, which towered above the other shops. They wouldn't stop there or at Weasley Wizard Whizzes, which disappointed Draco a little. He loved that place but felt uncomfortable going in there on his own. He was sure it would have been okay with Ron escorting him. As they walked past Gringotts he took a quick glance to the left, where the entrance to Knockturn Alley lay. Even now, eight years since the defeat of Voldemort, Draco hadn't taken one step down that path. An old hag smoking a pipe was perched on a stool near the entrance. They continued on to the end of Diagon Alley where the junk shop and most of the carts with cheap wares congregated. Young children were gathered around them, entranced by the magical trinkets. 

Ron approached the cart with the most kids holding out their knuts in trade for the newest batch of Chocolate Frogs, which apparently had just arrived. Draco couldn't help but smile, seeing the kids tear into the packages hoping to get their favourite wizard or maybe get one of the rarer cards, which often showed one of the more questionable wizards. He reached into his own pocket fingering the bit of change he had in there. It had been a long time since he purchased a Chocolate Frog. The cart was flimsy at best. Four uneven wooden spoke wheels held up a flat made of plywood. Wooden poles painted gold and green held up a blue tarp with a giant Chocolate Frog sitting on top. Chocolate Frog cards covered in a protective seal were plastered to the posts. On a makeshift counter made up of random sized boxes, piles of unopened cards were quickly being diminished. 

A small witch pulled on Draco's robes. She pointed to Ron and then to a card of Auror Ron Weasley pasted on the cart near her. She seemed in awe. Draco elbowed Ron relaying the situation. 

Ron reached in his own pocket and pulled out a few of his own Chocolate Frog cards, bent down, and gave it to her. "Don't tell anyone else," Ron whispered in her ear. "This is just for you." 

The little black-haired witch in dishevelled clothes thanked him and immediately opened the cards. The frogs took big leaps but Draco caught them just before they escaped. The girl was oblivious that sh'd almost lost her treat. She bounced up and down and others gathered around her as she cycled through the three personally signed cards of Harry, Ron and Hermione.

"We give them to kids who we meet on our cases," Ron said to Draco. 

Draco nodded. There was that warmth again. Ron wasn't walking around demanding adoration; he just received it because of what he had done in the past and what he currently stood for. He had earned it and not bought it. The realisation struck deep. Draco would never be perceived that way. 

The owner of the cart, a young witch with turquoise robes and pink hair looked at Ron and his Auror robes with suspicion. She reached into a large purse and pulled out a license. Draco glanced at it. The witch's name was Annie Smith. "I haven't done nothing wrong," she said. "It's all legal. I got the cards this morning from the Old Dock in Liverpool. I stood all night in line waiting, I did."

Ron shook his head. "No worries. We're not here over any trades issue. We're here to ask you about a report you filled a few years ago about some missing Chocolate Frog cards." He reached into satchel and pulled out a stack of files. He searched through them and pulled out one and handed it to her.

"Blimey, Auror Weasley. Why are you coming around now? I went to the Ministry three years ago. Some witch took my cards, she did, and back then none of you seemed interested. Never saw the witch again." 

"A witch?" Draco said. "Are you sure it was a witch?"

"Oh yeah, I'm sure. She talked to me sweet about how she wanted a special card for her son and that she'd pay good money for it. Wanted a Headmaster Severus Snape, she did. She showed me a sack of Galleons. I so happened to have the card, it was my own. Kept it in my purse along with a few others. I sold it to her. Biggest sale I've ever made. Might have overcharged a bit, but you don't find too many buyers like that around here. Usually, they buy through the adverts in the papers. Anyway, I was all pleased until I noticed a whole unopened box of Chocolate Frogs was missing."

"Do you remember what the witch looked like?" Ron asked. "Besides the short brown hair you mentioned in the report?"

Annie Smith squinted as she crooked the corner of her mouth. "No, not really. Well wait. I do remember she was dressed quite well. You know down here at the end of the alley we don't get too many of the rich ones.

~~~~~~0~~~~~~

Draco sat in the armchair in front of the opened windows. The commuting traffic had lessened but still he put up a muffling charm to filter out the motor noise. The sheer curtains billowed as the autumn winds blew in. A bright light shined down on the page he'd been reading over and over. He glanced out the windows into the fall night. A near full moon was fighting with the clouds over which should rule the sky. Victorious beams stretched into his room. He reached for the snifter of warmed apricot brandy precariously perched on a tall stack of books next to his chair. He drank a deep sip as the clock struck eight. He wondered if Potter was at the Golden Hind. For the past week, Draco had gone every night but Potter hadn't made an entrance. Draco had been there as a reward for making it through another day without killing Weasley or himself. But tonight, tonight he knew Benjy would be there. Puddlemere United was in town. Draco shook his head at the memories of when Benjy was in town. The relationship wasn't all bad. In fact, Draco reminisced most of it was good. Benjy was gone most of the time and when he was around, the sex was brilliant. It was just too bad he had wanted to get serious. Clingy, is what Draco had though before and that was the truth. He hated partners who were too needy. Those that lasted the longest were those who said that least. Draco took another sip of brandy as that insight made him feel even worse.

He should firecall Blaise. Blaise was always good for lifting him out of his malaise by taking him to some exclusive club in London. But then in the morning he would feel like shit and Weasley would make snide comments about not being able to keep up. The past few days had been a blur of interviews and reshuffling of the golden files. The only real clue was that they were sure the thief was a woman who wore disguises. She was reported as having brown, blonde, red, black, and white hair. Short and long. And, Draco had noted, this witch usually just took small magical items. The most expensive items no longer seemed related to the case. He stared at the words on the unturned page. It was useless to try and build a wizarding system like HOLMES. Muggles used computers to compensate for their lack of magic. Could they have surpassed what magic could do? Draco's throat constricted at the thought and he had to cough. The brandy spurted out of his mouth and all over the yellowed pages. He dried the book with a spell, no damage was visible. His childhood beliefs and conviction as a youth still had a hold on him. It wasn't that he would harm a Muggle or deny a Muggle-born entrance to the magical world; it was just a feeling that they were different and given the choice he would never choose to be a Muggle. The thought of his distant cousin living in Chelsea came to him. He wondered if she would allow him to venture into her mind like he had done with Sarah Longbottom, would he find magic still inside of her. No, he wouldn't even make the offer; the magical world was better off without her being a part of it.

The fireplace flared. Draco recognised the trainers before the rest of the body stumbled out. 

"Potter, what do I owe the pleasure?" he said, without rising from his chair. 

Harry dusted off his robes and then ran his fingers through his hair. "Sorry, Draco, for not giving a warning. I hope I didn't disrupt your evening," he said while looking anxiously around the flat.

Draco chuckled. "Potter, there's no one here but me. Pull up a chair and have a drink. I do believe you promised to have one with me once or twice."

"Yeah, um, sorry about that. The case has kept me working overtime." Harry cleared the chair nearest Draco's of books and parchment and quills. 

"And your visit has to do the case, I suppose. Not a social call?"

Harry tilted his head and looked at Draco questioningly. "Um, yeah, the case. But if you're hungry we could go into London. Iris has introduced me to some brilliant restaurants." 

Draco shook his head as he poured Harry a snifter of the apricot brandy and warmed it with his wand. "No, Potter, I'm drinking my dinner tonight. I supposed you're here to ask if I've made any progress on HOLMES. The short answer is no, none worth talking about."

"And the long answer?" Harry asked as he took the glass from Draco.

"The long answer is that I don't think it's possible. At least not in the same scale as the Muggles have," Draco said. He could see the disappointment in Harry's eyes. In fact, he thought, Harry looked horrible. "Potter, are you having doubts that you can solve this without something like HOLMES?"

Harry nodded as he downed half of the warmed alcohol in his glass. 

"Slow it, Potter, this brandy is more potent than the stuff I'm sure you're used to."

Harry lowered the glass with a grin. "Good," he said and then finished the rest.

Draco raised a brow but who was he to lecture Harry on his drinking. He poured him another and he wondered briefly what Harry was like when pissed.

"Is Dawlish on your case?" Draco asked, thinking that might be the cause for Harry to just drop by. 

"No, he hasn't said a word to me all week. I did get a note from Kingsley saying I should limit Iris' visits to our world. I have my suspicions about who complained."

"It wasn't me," Draco blurted out.

Harry laughed. He reached over and touched Draco on his arm, giving him a quick pat. "Didn't cross my mind that it was, Malfoy. No, I think it was Savage. He's pretty rigid about proper protocol."

"Ah, I know the type. I hope that doesn't cause a problem for you two," Draco said, thinking maybe he should send Savage a bottle of this brandy if pissing off Harry brought him to his flat. Draco bit his lower lip knowing that he should probably slow his drinking down, too. Even while looking knackered Harry still was appealing. Obviously, going without sex for more than two weeks was affecting his judgment. 

"No, it's not a major issue. Even though the culprit is probably magical, it appears that most of the action is on the Muggle side. Did I mention that we have another corpse with those puncture wounds?"

Draco's eyes widened. "Was it a Squib or Muggle?" 

Harry sighed. "Squib. It crossed my mind that we might be dealing with another Umbridge who is trying to rid any trace Squibs from the wizarding world. Maybe the others are just to throw us off that track."

"You really are desperate for a magical HOLMES," Draco said with a quick laugh. "The potions and wounds don't fit that scenario."

"Yeah, I know. It just makes me sick that we have someone on our side killing Muggles and Squibs."

A strong wind blew through the room. Papers scattered about and book pages got ruffled. Draco quickly shut the window and tried to straighten the mess but gave up as Harry laughed at him. "Always thought you'd be a neat freak."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Spoiled by house elves, Potter. And before you ask, no I don't want one. Nosy critters and if you ask me not as loyal as they claim to be."

Harry winced. 

"Look at that elf we came across at my cousin's home. Told on Helena right way. She shouldn't have done that," Draco said, knowing he should probably leave the subject of house elves alone. 

"I think the elf still thought the parents were alive in some way," Harry said in Shandy's defense.

Draco thought better than to argue with Harry. Even an elf could tell that when flesh was falling off bones, the witch and wizard were dead.

"Speaking of Helena, I had Iris search HOLMES for any dead Muggles that might be connected to her when she said she lost her magic," Harry said.

"And—?" Draco was not surprised that Harry wasn't going to let go of that case so easily. Even Draco had been surprised how quickly and easily she had been released.

"Nothing."

"Ah, still doesn't mean she didn't do it," Draco said.

Harry grinned. "I agree."

The room darkened as the clouds made a comeback and obscured the moon. The candles on the mantle automatically lit. Draco added flames to the fireplace as a chill set in. Harry seemed to relax as the fire crackled. 

"So why won't HOLMES work, Unspeakable Malfoy?" he said as he helped himself to the bottle of brandy and poured another. He topped of Draco's before setting the bottle down on a table instead of the nearby stack of books.

Draco knew the explanation would be long; he lifted his legs and rested them on a footstool that he Accio'd from another room. One appeared next to Harry's feet also. Harry followed suit and rested his legs on it, too. For just a moment, Draco couldn't say a word. He was caught up at the sight of Harry Potter in his flat drinking brandy with him by the fire. It was nice.

"Too much random information. Magic deals with specifics. Just like Apparating, you have to have a place in mind. But the biggest problem is the quality of the information. As you and I know, Aurors haven't always been the best record keepers, and, what they put on them isn't always the truth."

"So you've given up?" Harry said with a yawn worthy of a lion.

"No, not given up, just thinking that I might have better luck if I practised with some solid closed cases and see if I can replicate the outcomes. I'm working on the algorithms to pick out information that could possibly be related."

Harry yawned again. His eyelids drifted lower. "Maybe talk with Pince. Seems like she would have something to scan books for information. I used to think she knew every word in every book."

Draco smiled. As if an Unspeakable wouldn't have a way of searching books. "I'll do that tomorrow," he said thinking he would appease Harry and then realised he was talking to himself. Harry had fallen asleep. Draco cleared his couch and levitated Harry over to it. He carefully removed his boots. Harry gave a few moans of discomfort but then snuggled into the blankets and pillows Draco Accio'd from his bedroom. He removed the glasses, setting them on the coffee table, within arm's reach. Draco stood there looking at Harry and shook his head, remembering times when he would have killed Harry, or rather called others to kill him if he found him alone and asleep. Draco felt a peace come over him. Harry trusted him...completely. No words would have convinced him that was true, but Harry coming over and drinking as much as he did, wanting to talk shop and then falling asleep proved it was true. Draco spelled the fire to keep burning and then walked between the piles of books to his own room. Tonight he would sleep well.

~~~~~~0~~~~~~

The morning brought an empty couch. Harry had left a note dangling in the air by the fireplace. Draco grabbed for it and tried to decipher the scribbles. There was yet another issue for creating HOLMES, deciphering Potter's notes.

> _
> 
> Draco,
> 
> Thanks for the brandy, I swear next time is on me. I'm sorry but I shattered the glass when I was looking for my glasses. I left a few galleons on the table. I'll keep you updated. I have faith that you'll come through with HOLMES. HP.  
> 
> 
> _

Draco crumpled the piece of parchment and threw it into the fire. He saw the money on the table, which he'd return to Potter. Draco had found the mismatched set of bar glasses when he had moved into the flat. He glanced at his pocket-watch and then sipped his tea. He had a few moments before meeting Ron at the entrance to Knockturn Alley. The day had finally come, and for some reason Draco wasn't as apprehensive as before. He looked in the mirror and straightened the frogs on his formal Unspeakable robes. He didn't want to leave any doubt for anyone who saw him walking through Knocturn Alley that he was on official Ministry business.

"What's the occassion?" Ron said as Draco approached him near Gringotts. "Trying to impress the warlocks?"

"No," Draco replied shortly. "Not that I need to explain my attire to you but given where we are going I wanted to make sure no one would question why I was there."

Ron snorted. "Yeah, well, good luck on that. The _Daily Prophet_ can easily print that you Imperio'd me."

Draco's stomach turned. "You don't think..."

Ron burst out laughing.

"Shut it Weasley. Let's just go and get this over with."

Draco kept pace with Ron as they walked through Knockturn Alley towards Borgin and Burkes. The scent of dark potions and incense hung heavy in the air. As they made their way along the winding path Draco realised that none of the shops here had appeared in their files. He wondered if the witch didn't like dark magic or that the Knockturn vendors wouldn't report any thefts to the Ministry. If he had to guess he would go with the latter. 

He rolled his eyes as an old witch waved shrunken heads in front of his face. They were fabricated along with the bones reported to be human, which were just badly transformed animal bones. The poisonous candles, though, those were usually genuine. He remembered his aunt had a collection which she brought with her when she invaded the Manor with the Dark Lord. Ron, he spotted, was being left completely alone. So much for his uniform demanding any respect. 

The sign saying _Borgin and Burkes est 1863_ creaked as it swayed in a non-existent wind. Draco took a big gulp before opening the door for Ron to enter first. The establishment seemed even more stuffed with furniture and shelves full of unusual artefacts than ever before. It could have been in defiance of the current Ministry or perhaps the old families had decided to rid their homes of dark magical items.

"Ah, Master Malfoy, what may I help you with today?" Mr Borgin asked as if he'd just seen Draco the previous day. The old wizard looked ancient. He shuffled towards the counter and started removing items laying there. 

Ron stepped forward to speak, but Draco pushed him gently aside. Borgin wasn't going to say anything to Auror Ron Weasley. Weasley stood for everything the wizard detested. 

"We are working a stolen items case, Mr Borgin. We were hoping you might have some information."

Borgin's eyes narrowed. "I didn't send for you, how did you know?"

"Know what?" Draco asked.

"Know about the knife of course. It was on the top shelf of that curio cabinet right there behind you. Went missing last week."

"Was it valuable?" Draco asked.

Borgin nodded. "Oh yes. The blade was dragon-breath forged and the handle goblin carved."

"And the goblins let you keep it?" Ron asked, causing both Draco and Borgin to look his way.

"The blade was cursed. One poke or slice and the animal would be dead," Borgin said to Ron and then turned back to Draco with an almost desperate look.

"Animal?" Ron asked.

"Yes, animal, Auror Weasley. Borgin wouldn't be selling items that might be used against a fellow wizard or witch."

"Oh, oh, right."

"Do you know who stole it?" Draco asked. Hopefully speaking up for Borgin had won him some points.

"Didn't see her do it, but she was the only patron that day. I hadn't seen her for many years. I don't think she knew I recognised her with her short ginger hair but I knew her parents. Good customers they were. I believe she's your cousin, Master Malfoy."

"Helena?" Draco asked. "Helena Malfoy? It seems hard to believe she'd come here after being released from the Ministry holding cell."

Borgin smiled. "You'd be surprised who comes here, Master Malfoy. You'd be surprised. As to Ms Malfoy, she said her name was Emmy Baker. I don't argue with customers, especially paying ones. She bought a few cutting quills, a deck of cards, and a very nice bracelet. It wasn't cursed, of course, but the rubies were exquisite."

"Do you want to file a formal report?" Draco asked.

Borgin shook his head. "No."

"And if we find the knife?" Draco asked.

"Then you may keep it, Master Malfoy."

~~~~~~0~~~~~~

"I don't think we need back up to talk to your cousin, Malfoy," Ron said as they made their way back to Diagon Alley and then rushed to the Leaky Cauldron.

Within a few minutes they were near Paultons Square, appropriately dressed as Muggles. Draco directed Ron towards #28. He elbowed him once as Ron seemed overwhelmed by the wealthy town homes. Draco took a moment's pride that his cousin had done so well for herself, even if she was a thief. 

They hesitated for a minute as they composed themselves and caught their breath. Then they knocked. There was no answer. 

"Should we take a look?" Draco asked. He wasn't quite sure about the Auror procedure in entering a private home uninvited.

"Look but don't touch." Ron responded drew his wand out of the pocket of his jacket and whispered the door opening spell.

"Oi, what's with the white?" he said as he stepped into the flat. 

"Yes, we'll have to make sure we check the floors for dirt before we leave." Draco went into the sitting room. Nothing looked any different than before. The paintings were on the walls and the white furniture sparse but tasteful. This time, however, he ventured into the other rooms. Everything was perfectly in place and no clutter what-so-ever. It felt frigid. How could anyone live like this? Even the closets contained perfectly aligned shoes. The sweaters were expertly folded while dresses and jackets hung in neat rows. 

"There is nothing here. I'd be surprised to find a crumb big enough for a mouse. And I'm not about to Accio the knife," Ron said as they met back up in the living room. "Remember what Borgin said, one nick and you're dead."

Draco sighed and pulled out a pair of gloves and his wand from his jacket pocket. 

Ron looked at him quizzically. "Dragon hide?"

"Yes, I need them for my potions work but I think they will do for this, too."

"Your life, Malfoy."

Draco put on the gloves. " _Accio goblin knife,_ " he said with a flick of his wand. Nothing appeared. He repeated the spell with the same result. 

"We should try the other place you and Harry went to," Ron said.

"Chrysos Hall," Draco said. "It should be better now that the bodies have gone. Just an old dusty manor. Maybe Helena decided to move back there. She does have an elf to help her."

~~~~~~0~~~~~~

"Bloody hell, Malfoy, is everyone in your family filthy rich?"

The manor, which now belonged exclusively to Helena Malfoy, appeared in the distance at the top of the hill. Draco surmised it could fit the whole Weasley family including grandkids with each having their own room. The four stories of windows sparkled like diamonds in the morning sun.

"Filthy is the appropriate word, Weasley. We had very little to do with this side of the family. I never inquired why that was but I assume it had to do with my father and his disapproving of them and their jealousy of us."

The walk up the windy path seemed shorter this time. Maybe because it was now autumn and the leaves on the estate trees were at their peak colour. 

This time he wasn't surprised at the lack of protection spells. The house elf would keep Helena safe. 

"State your name," the doorknocker said. 

"Draco Malfoy and guest," Draco responded without hesitation.

"Be welcome," the doorknocker said and the door opened.

The moment Draco entered he knew something was wrong. An odd sense of deja-vu came over him. The rays of the sun hadn't reached the high windows; the entrance hall was dark. He and Ron both took out their wands and held them up lighting the hall with a _Lumos_. Draco put his other hand out, stopping Ron from walking any further. He whispered his family spell.

"She's not here," Draco said. "And the house looks worse than before. I'll call the elf.".

"Don't think that's going to work," Ron said and pointed at the top of the stairwell. Hanging on a plaque was a mounted elf's head.

"That bitch," Draco spat out. "The elf had betrayed her but I didn't think she'd kill him."

"I should call for Hermione," Ron said. "She could tell whether the elf was murdered or not."

Draco shook his head. Even though he and Hermione talked about Arithmancy and possible spells for HOLMES, he didn't think he could handle both of them at the same time. "Wait until we're done. I don't want a gaggle of Aurors and Level Four people traipsing through here destroying evidence."

Ron snorted. "Malfoy, this place has been ransacked."

Draco blinked as he held his wand high and turned around. The furnishings were all gone, even the chandeliers and sconces. "We should check the rest of the house," he said, wondering when this had happened and if Helena had done it. "The bedrooms and sitting rooms are upstairs. Let's see if they're empty now, too."

At the top of the landing they both held out their wands lighting the elf's face. Shandy was much too young to have died from natural causes. "Left is where I found the bodies in their sitting room. Harry went to the right; I'm not sure what he saw down there."

They ventured left retracing Draco's steps from a month before. Each room was empty with only spiders and mice left. 

"It's almost like it's been returned to its original Muggle state. I can't even feel a hint of magic," Draco said, commenting more to himself than to Ron. 

They opened up more and more doors until they came to a far stairwell, leading up to the third floor. 

"Let's finish this floor first," Draco said and turned around. It took them a few minutes to make their way down the desolate hallway. The wooden boards were in need of polishing and squeaked with each step. They came to Shandy's mounted head and passed it without looking. Ahead they found a barren library and a study and a bedroom.

"Look!" Ron said as they exited the bedroom, "there's something hanging on the wall."

They rush down the hallway and found a massive green tapestry draped against the wall. Ron tried to push it aside but only the bottom corner gave way. 

"Don't bother, Weasley. Family house-magic is keeping it in place. It's the Malfoy family tree." Draco raised his wand, and recognised the many names embroidered in black and silver thread, all connected by golden branches. He quickly found his name and then Helena's. With his finger he began to trace his name to the Malfoys' origins centuries ago. He used to do the same thing when he was a child in Lucius' personal study. His finger stopped three levels up at his great-grandparents. There was a mistake. "Weasley, give me some light here," he demanded. Ron brought his wand closer at once. Its cool blue light increased the intensity of the names in silver. "Who is Natalie Malfoy? My great-grandfather didn't have a sister, only two brothers."

"She married a John Berry born 1802 and it looks like they didn't have any kids. It's also strange that there is no record of death," Ron said.

Draco shook his head. "The name sounds familiar but I don't know of any wizarding family with the name Berry."

"Any other names you don't recognise?" Ron asked.

"Give me a minute." Draco looked for other names that he didn't remember from father's tapestry. "Look, another one without children. I always thought my father's maternal grandmother was an only child, but here it says she had a brother named George Pemberton. I don't understand. Oh shit, I bet they married Muggles." 

Ron laughed. Draco turned towards him and scowled. 

"Maybe we should continue looking around," Ron said. "Do you think anything might be behind the tapestry? Since you're family, maybe you can draw it back"

Draco stepped to the edge and pulled it to the side. An ornate carved door was revealed. "Brilliant," he whispered and reached for the crystal door handle, turning it with ease. But the door barely cracked open. "Something is leaning against it. Help me push, Weasley." They both put their shoulders to the door and pushed with all their strength. The door budged open.

"Wh-what!"

"Bloody hell!"

"I—I don't even know where to begin," Draco muttered as he stared at mountains of stuff piled upon piles of more stuff. He covered his nose as the stench rotting animals and musty clothing and papers was overwhelming. He could barely discern one item from the next. A feeling of terror started to within him. Visions of the Room of Requirement the day of the fiendfyre came to him in overwhelming speed. "I—I've got to get out of here," he croaked and turned around to exit the room.

"You okay, mate?" Ron asked out in the hallway and put his hand on Draco's shoulder. 

Draco was bent over holding his knees gasping for air. He nodded. He was too overcome to comment on Ron's friendly words and touch. Somehow he found comfort in it. He knew in this moment that even with all that happened between them, that stupid Auror Weasley would protect even him.

"What, what is that in there?" Draco said, struggling to get the words out.

"It's called a hoard. Worst I've ever seen."

Draco looked up at Ron. "You've seen this type of thing before?"

"Yeah, a few times over the years. Usually in the house of some old wizarding family that has lost their fortunes or loved ones in the war. Sometimes people lose too much and then they hold onto everything. They start to hoard stuff."

"We should show Harry this."

Ron shook his head. "No, Harry doesn't need shit like this. Whoever did this is sick, Malfoy. They're not taking care of the items; they just to possess everything. Harry would never understand it."

Draco rose up. At least he could breathe properly again. He leaned against the tapestry. "We should find out if it's Helena," he said.

"I'll check. You stay here. Let me borrow the gloves, though." He took the gloves from Draco's hands and squeezed back through the opening of the door. Draco stared down the long hallway while holding back the tapestry. If it was Helena who had come back, why had she not she recognised all that she still had? She could have lived here with her house-elf and been part of the wizarding community, no matter that she had lost her magic. 

"It's her." Ron said before he even reappeared in the doorway, carrying one of large sacks Aurors used to transport evidence. He set it before Draco and opened it up. "Bugbear hide, I presume. The goblin knife and a shitload of Chocolate Frog cards, which I only gathered a few."

"Should we find and arrest her?" Draco asked.

"No, not yet. I think we need to catalogue the items. I also want to find out where the house furniture has gone. Why would she leave this hoard and get rid of everything else? If we report this now, knowing Dawlish, he'd take us off the case."

"True," Draco said, feeling overly weary. 

"Why don't we call it a day? You're not looking to well and I want to talk to Hermione about the elf."

~~~~~~0~~~~~~

What was to be a short afternoon nap turned into a long sleep. Draco woke up on the couch shivering. He'd left the window open again and now the night's chill had set in. He closed the window and started a fire. He stared into the flames thinking about _that_ room, the hoard in Chrysos Hall. A spark of memory hit him and he jumped up. "No—no way. It's a coincidence," he whispered. "But if it's not?" There was just one way to find out. He reached for a piece of parchment and self-inking quill.

> _
> 
> Detective Inspector Iris,
> 
> My apologies in contacting you on a Friday night but I need some information that I'm hoping you can help me with. Is there a way to look up Edward Berry's ancestors? Can you find out if he's related to a John Berry. John was born in 1802. He married a woman named Natalie Malfoy. I think you can see where I'm going with this. Also, do any of the Muggle victims have the last name of Pemberton? If so would they be related to a George Pemberton? Please return any information you have by owl. 
> 
> Regards,  
>  Unspeakable Draco Malfoy.
> 
> _

Draco paced the floor, waiting for Iris' response. He wasn't sure how long it would take her to find the information. HOLMES seemed to have all of the answers to their questions. He was sure there was a way to find someone's ancestors, but then maybe it only tracked the information the Muggles entered into it. He'd have to ask. 

Two hours had passed. He'd eaten dinner and firecalled Blaise. Finally, he decided that it could take days for Iris to respond and that he should busy himself with something else. He picked up a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ and went to his room, lay in bed and caught up on the news and gossip. As a last resort he turned on the wireless for music and opened the drawer of his bedside table. A bottle of lube and the newest edition of _Wizard's Only_ would hopefully be the charm that made him calm down. It didn't hurt that the cover featured a dark-haired handsome wizard riding a broom, wearing nothing but glasses.

~~~~~~0~~~~~~

The hooting of an owl outside his bedroom window woke Draco up. It was eight in the morning. He shook his head, surprised that he'd slept that long. But then he was having dreams he only wished were true. He gave Iris' barn owl an owl treat and sent her on her way. He unscrolled the note and gave a whoop. John Berry was Edward Berry's great-grandfather. Iris also added that one of the victims mother's maiden name was Pemberton and that she was related to a George. She then went on at length about how odd it was that there was no information for either George Pemberton or Natalie Malfoy before their marriage date. One such case could have been a coincidence but not two. These weren't random Muggles being murdered. These were Muggles distantly related to magical families. For good measure, Iris had sent him a list of the other dead Muggles' names. He would spend the weekend tracing their history. It would be tricky as Directive 1842 made it difficult to gather ancestry information but if worse came to worse he'd ask Granger-Weasley to do it. Draco knew deep down that he would find the names Iris sent him were related to other wizarding families. He also knew that he'd have to tell Harry.

~~~~~~0~~~~~~

"Number 12 Grimmauld Place," Draco said as he threw down the Floo Powder in his fireplace. After breakfast he had sent Harry a note asking if they could get together as he had something important to share about the case. Harry had replied with his address, saying the Floo would be open.

When he arrived, a house-elf he recognised from during the war greeted him and showed him to the backyard. Draco was confused why Potter would be out there. He never imagined him as the gardening type. 

"Over here," Harry yelled from the side of the yard. 

Draco crossed a small patch of grass and rounded the corner of the house. His breath caught in his throat. Harry was laying on the ground, fixing what Draco knew to be a motorbike and if his memory served him correctly, he'd heard that it was Sirius Black's. 

"Be done in a minute," Harry said as he turned his attention back to his work. 

"Take your time. No hurry," Draco said meaning every word of it. He never thought any one could look so good wearing jeans and a greased up white t-shirt. 

"So what has you working on a Saturday?" Harry asked as he continued to tinker with the motorcycle. 

Draco stepped a bit closer to Harry and cleared his throat. "I found the connection between the disappearing Muggles, Squibs and wizards."

Harry stopped working and tilted his head to the side, glancing up at Draco. His eyes were hidden behind grease speckled glasses. "You mean besides the potions and marks."

Draco nodded. "Yes, Potter, I unearthed a deeper connection."

"What is it?" Harry asked, giving Draco his full attention.

"The dead Muggles all have magical ancestors, third or more generations back."

"Shit! You know this for sure? Who else knows?"

"DI Bustamant. I had her look up a few names to make sure. On the Muggle side they're showing a relative with no records before the marriage. On our side, the records show a relative married a Muggle and when they didn't have any magical children they weren't tracked anymore."

"That's fucking brilliant, Draco. Did you use your HOLMES for it?"

Draco laughed. "No, Potter, I made the connection myself. Only a HOLMES that contained both the Muggle and wizarding worlds' information could have made the connection."

"We have to let Kingsley know. Now he has to make Dawlish put you back on the case. Give me a minute, I'm almost done and then I'm going to send an owl asking for a meeting."

A warm feeling coursed through Draco. He wanted to be back working with Harry and now maybe he would.

"There, that should do it," Harry said a few moments later and then stood up. 

"Black's bike?" Draco said.

"Yeah. Got her after the war and started putting her back together again. Have you ever been on one?"

"No, and not sure I would want to."

Harry laughed and wiped his brow adding more grease to his face. "Nothing like it, Draco. Beats a broom or a car any day."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Right, okay, I'll take your word for it."

"No, seriously, I'll give you a ride. You'll see."

Draco shook his head. "And if I say No?"

"Then I'll think less of you as a man," Harry said trying keep a straight face.

"Well then we can't have that. But just a short ride, Potter."

"Okay, then, give me a few minutes to clean up and send an owl Kingsley. Oh and you might want to change your slacks. Jeans or leather work best."

Leather, Draco thought. Potter in leather. He wished he had thought about that last night. He looked at the bike. It reminded him of a mechanical beast. One that was untamed. Chrome glistened in the sun, while the dark-red gas tank seemed to absorb the rays. His attention was averted when a door creaked behind him. He turned around and saw a shed in the corner of the yard. He walked over to the small shed to latch the door, but something inside caught his eye. It was a glass on a shelf, and it looked like one of his mismatched brandy snifters. 

Draco opened the door wider and his jaw dropped. It was wizarding space and there in the shed were multiple rows of shelves lining the walls. Item after item was displayed carefully as if each was a valuable treasure. Draco couldn't help but walk into the shed. 

On the edge of the top shelf was his name printed out quite legibly on a card and behind it was the sparkling brandy snifter. Next to it stood a blue vase. Draco smiled remembering the moment when he had caught Harry nick it up at Goathland. A button caught his attention as it randomly lit up words that had once said _Potter Stinks_. His breath caught as he noticed a wand laying there just like any other item. It was his hawthorn wand. The wand Harry had taken down the Dark Lord with. Instinctively, Draco reached for it but then pulled back. It was Harry's, not his. 

Draco took a few more steps into the inside of the shed. Names and items were everywhere. It was as if Harry was trying to hold onto every single memory and treasure it. Draco remembered what Ron had said about how Harry wouldn't understand Helena not appreciating what she had accumulated. And that some people can lose too much and then try and hold on to everything. Harry was flawed, Draco thought, but then corrected himself. Harry was human. He'd been affected by his childhood and the war in ways beyond Draco's comprehension. 

He quickly exited the shed and latched the door. He transfigured his slacks into jeans and only hoped Potter would choose leather. Harry didn't disappoint. The black leather trousers were nothing like the one's Draco saw at the clubs. Those were for show. The leather Harry was wearing was for a purpose, giving it a whole new dimension. The word that came to Draco was _masculine_. He knew he shouldn't stare but he couldn't tear his gaze away. 

"Ready?" Harry asked as he climbed over the motorcycle seat, straddling it. 

"Yes, I think so," Draco said while trying to gather his wits. He quickly joined Harry on the bike. 

"Hold on tight, Malfoy." Harry started the engine. The deep loud rumble coursed through Draco, vibrating in all of the right places. No wonder Harry likes this thing so much. But then as the bike began to move out of the side gate and onto the street all Draco could do was smile and hold on. 

They cruised down the Muggle streets, the engine's purr causing people to stare. Without warning Harry began to increase the speed and they rounded a corner that seemed to be heading towards a dead end. Only on the last stretch did the bike begin to rise. 

"Fuck!" Draco yelled as his they skimmed rooftops and narrowly missed chimneys. He could feel Harry laughing in front of him. Draco held on tighter. And then once again without warning they climbed up into the sky, punching through low puffy clouds.

Draco said as loud as he could in Harry's ear, "Where are we going?"

Harry took one hand off the handle bar and pointed down. All Draco could see was golden trees. The descent made his stomach jump. He closed his eyes and rested his face against Harry's back. He was clinging onto Harry as hard as he could, which made him feel safe. Soon the engine slowed and they landed softer than he had ever done on his broom. Draco slowly opened his eyes when Harry shut off the engine. The world was silent. They were in the midst of rolling hills covered with golden leaved trees. Only the sun's rays pierced through the canopy they were under.

"Oh, Potter."

"Have you been here before?" Harry asked as he got off the bike. Draco did the same, but his legs felt a bit wobbly and bent out of shape. He tried to shake it off. Harry smiled at him.

Draco looked around at the thick carpet of autumn leaves and, yet, there were still plenty on the dark-barked trees. "No, don't think I have."

"Forest of Dean," Harry said. "Hermione took Ron and me here that year."

Draco didn't have to ask what year. He reached down and picked up the most perfect golden leaf he could find and handed it to Harry. Harry took it and looked at him with both a question and a smile.

"Keep it, Harry, because I want you to remember this moment," Draco said. And before Harry could respond, Draco lifted Potter's chin with two fingers and kissed him gently on the lips. At first he thought he'd made a mistake but then Harry pulled him forward into a tight hold. Draco slowly parted his lips and was greeted with a soft throaty moan and the tip of Harry's tongue. The kiss lasted longer than any he remembered; it was as if either pulled away the magic would be gone. Draco was sure that when they stopped that they'd look at each other and wonder what the hell they were doing. Instead, he felt Harry's hands on his shoulders and the kiss ended. Their foreheads met and then they stared at each other. 

"I'll never forget," Harry whispered.

~~~~~~0~~~~~~

_TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK..._  



	8. Episode #8: Silence Screamed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Auror Dawlish gets more than he can handle from a witch whose Squib father goes missing.

Harry stopped.

Hogwarts—just visible through the fog—looked too much like it had during Harry's school days. Draco’s hand brushed against his, and Harry looked up to see concern written on his face. He forced a smile and moved to take Draco’s hand, but stopped himself. Draco didn’t seem like the hand holding type, and he had given Harry no indication he wanted to acknowledge what happened while at work.

‘Have you been back?’

‘No,’ Harry said, ‘Hermione has. Ron and I went right into Auror training.’

The wind, though light, was cold and caused the skin on Harry’s neck to prickle. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready for this. What if there were ghosts still present from the war? Not just memories, but their actual ghosts? Harry continued along the path, and Draco kept in step beside him.

When they hit the bridge—and Harry remembered Katie being cursed by the necklace there years before—he pulled away from Draco.

‘I can do this alone,’ Draco offered, ‘if you want.’

Harry shook his head. He wanted to see it. He needed to.

‘Have you been back?’

‘A couple of times.’ Draco pressed his lips into a thin line. ‘To speak with McGonagall.’

He picked up his pace, as though putting distance between him and the spot Katie had fallen would make the sick feeling disappear. For a moment, Harry considered that this was what Dawlish had wanted. To tear apart the fragile relationship he and Draco had built. Everyone knew they shared no happy memories at Hogwarts. Then Draco took his hand. The touch startled him into stopping again, and it took a moment for him to understand that it was in fact Draco’s hand.

But most of Harry’s happy memories did come from his school days, and he decided to focus on them. Draco was holding his hand. It would be another good memory. Harry pulled Draco to him—his expression still filled with concern—and kissed him. Draco stepped back and studied Harry’s face. Once satisfied that Harry was all right, he sighed and rested his forehead against Harry’s.

‘Trelawney’s waiting for us.’ Draco walked and Harry followed along, until their strides matched again.

Harry had been right.

Dawlish brought Draco back on the case, but their progress seemed to anger him. Sometimes, though it was rare, they’d speak with Seers about cases they were stuck on. Harry knew how little respect Dawlish had for Divination —it had surprised Harry when he'd ordered them to speak with one. But Ron was excited about seeing a Muggle police station. ‘Dad will love to hear all about it.’ And it meant Harry’d be working with Draco again, alone with Draco for one more day.

‘Do you think they’ll let us fly for bit while we’re here?’

‘Are you ill?’ Draco pretended to take Harry’s temperature: he felt his forehead, cheeks, and even his neck. ‘You want to play instead of work?’

Harry flushed under the attention. ‘This isn’t work—this is a ploy to waste our time. You’d think Dawlish was the one behind these murders as much as he messes around with the investigation.’

Draco hummed, but gave no other response. They were soon at the familiar entrance gate of Hogwarts.

As massive as Hogwarts was, it seemed smaller to Harry.

They passed the few students who had the morning free and were not in the library studying for their classes. The students whispered to each other if they walked with friends, and smiled and nodded to them if they were on their own. No one sneered at Malfoy or asked for Harry’s autograph; although he found himself anticipating the reverse from the Slytherins.

Draco turned up the stairs and Harry followed him up the ladder to Trelawney’s classroom. It made Harry smile. The absurdity of climbing a ladder to get into a classroom. Had he really done this everyday? It was the type of novelty that never should have worn off. The room was dark and misty just as he remembered it.

‘Mind your head,’ Professor Trelawney said, just before Harry smacked his head against a support beam. Draco smirked at him. He whispered a wandless spell as he ran his fingers through Harry’s hair; the pain disappeared. Trelawney gestured for them to sit, and they both chose armchairs, remembering that the pouffes were uncomfortable.

‘Tea?’

‘Oh no, thank you,’ Draco said, almost as loud and quick as Harry’s own protest.

‘I’ve meditated on this issue since I first received your owl.’ She wrapped her shawl around herself, sending the beads swinging around her. ‘I decided the ball would be the best way to get information for you. Most Divination is too general to be of much help. But with the crystal ball, I can see everything.’

Harry tried not to show his dissatisfaction with the whole idea. Trelawney never remembered her real prophecies, and he never put much stock in Divination. It seemed too much like chance for him to trust it. Harry had read the letter Draco wrote before he sent it. It was a simple: _we’re working on a serial murder case and would like any information you can give._

Harry had thought she’d need more to go on, or would ask for something specific. Instead Trelawney closed her eyes and began to hum as she tried to see with her inner eye. Harry tried to catch Draco's eyes, but he was poised and ready to write down anything and everything she said. He fought a smile; Draco looked so earnest.

‘Oh.’ Trelawney gazed into the crystal ball. Her eyes flicked about as though she was watching a movie and wanted to capture every detail. ‘I see it all very clearly.’

They remained quiet as they listened to her.

‘You will be out dining together on your first date.’ She smiled. ‘The decor is lovely; excellent choice, Mr Potter. Though I’m not familiar with the restaurant myself.’

Harry looked at Draco who kept his eyes on his parchment, but hesitated before he wrote down what Trelawney said.

‘You must have the duck, Mr Malfoy—anything else will displease you—and stay for dessert, Mr Potter—you’ll enjoy it the most. It’ll be cool, but neither of you will mind the walk. Look for Henry behind the red door. That’s where you’ll find him.’

Harry and Draco shared an inquisitive look; who was Henry? Which red door?

She watched for a moment longer, but then shook her head. ‘That’s all I have, boys, except a bit of advice.’ She turned to Harry, ‘You need to mind your head,’ and then to Draco, ‘You need to not let your focus be solely on _him_.’

They didn’t look at each other again, until they’d long left her presence and were outside the castle again.

‘I’ll never get over how odd that woman is.’ Harry shook his head. ‘Why did Dawlish pick her, anyway?’

‘He didn’t. He said, go ask a Seer. I picked her.’

Harry began to ask why, but stopped when he noticed they were not headed off the grounds. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Thought you wanted to fly?’ Draco pulled a Snitch out of his pocket. ‘Come on, let’s have a game—if you win, I’ll even pay for that dinner we’re going to have soon.’

‘And if you win?’

Draco looked Harry over as he thought. ‘I’ll find something.’

‘All right, but just one.’

No one was using the pitch when they got there, but they found Madam Hooch cleaning and counting the brooms.

‘Anyone scheduled to use the pitch for a while?’ Draco asked.

Madam Hooch started, but smiled when she saw who it was. ‘Well, Mr Malfoy, I wasn’t expecting you. And Mr Potter? I read that you are working together. How’s that been?’

Harry bit his lip, and Draco answered for them. ‘Better than expected. We were hoping to have a Seekers' match, if it isn’t too much trouble.’

She studied each of them and then gave a great sigh. ‘You break these brooms, and I’ll break you. No one is scheduled until this afternoon, so clean up after yourself and it’s fine with me.’

‘Thank you,’ Draco and Harry said at the same time. Draco leaned in and gave Madam Hooch a quick hug and a light kiss on the cheek, before he grabbed a couple of brooms and handed one to Harry.

‘All right boys. Have fun.’

Once they were close to the middle of the pitch Harry said, ‘I didn’t know you two were close.’

‘She was worried about me when I quit the team.’ Draco shrugged. ‘We talked some times.’

Harry felt there was more, but he didn’t push it. Draco released the Snitch and they watched it fly off.

‘On the count of three,’ Draco said.

Together they counted, ‘one, two, three’ and shot up after the tiny golden Snitch. They didn’t have to stay close to the pitch, so when the Snitch flew up and around the school they followed it. It has been too long since Harry had been on a broom and he pushed himself to keep up with Draco. He wondered how often Draco flew. Was it his first time on a broom since school as well?

They were both far behind the Snitch. But Harry could still see it in the distance. Draco tried to divert him by a sudden dive, but Harry kept his course straight. Draco popped back up in front of him a few moments later. He tried to obscure Harry’s view. It was a clever move as Draco was flying faster, but not fast enough to make it to the Snitch. If Harry lost sight of it, Draco would have little trouble beating him to it.

Harry pulled back and—keeping the Snitch in sight—changed his direction to meet up with it. Draco noticed immediately and hesitated on his own path. It was Draco’s major mistake. He was fast, but far too concerned about what the other Seeker was doing.

Get the Snitch. Harry’s mind was always focused on getting to the Snitch. He repeated it to himself as he tried to block out what Draco was doing. Harry pushed his broom faster. He distracted Draco, but he still had more area to cover.

They were on opposite sides of the pitch now, but Harry could see Draco gain speed. They both came in at different angles; Draco flying up as Harry flew down. Draco grabbed the Snitch a moment before Harry jerked his broom up to fly over Draco instead into him.

Back on the ground Harry caught his breath as he waited for Draco to join him. It was the first time Draco beaten Harry to the Snitch. It was the first time anyone had. But Harry was more interested in what Draco would ask him for than he’d been in catching the Snitch. And the look of utter disbelief and then surreal satisfaction on Draco’s face was worth more than adding another Snitch to Harry's collection.

Fuck, he had it bad.

He wanted to kiss him, again.

He could have kissed him, again.

He should have kissed him, again.

#

‘All right,’ Ron said. ‘Here’s what we know: the victims are in some way related to a witch or wizard, so these aren’t random attacks on Muggles. And Iris found two matches from the DNA of the Wizard who Splinched himself on her magic box—both were murder cases. But she couldn’t find his name in the National DNA database. So our suspects not only know both the magical and the Muggle world well, but commit crimes in both areas regularly.’

Draco had a pained expression on his face. ‘I find it disconcerting that you use the terms DNA and database, but still call computers “magic boxes”.’

Harry tried not to smile, but Ron reminded him too much of his father at the moment.

‘Folks, I’d hate to interrupt,’ Auror Dawlish called out across the room, disrupting everyone's discussions and paperwork. ‘But we’ve got a missing person, and I’d like a team out looking for him.’ There was a massive shuffle of parchment, and many volunteers called out. ‘His name is Henry Morton and—’ Harry didn’t hear the rest of what Dawlish said, as he and Draco had their own private, silent conversation. Harry’s expression said, _The cow was bleeding right_ ; although Draco’s looked more like an _I told you so—learn to trust me, Potter_ than an insult toward Trelawney.

Ron was swearing beside them, but Draco was the first to recover. ‘What’s wrong, Weasel?’

‘That’s my mum’s cousin.’

Harry said, ‘I’m sorry, Ron. Should we inform her—’

He waved Harry off. ‘We weren’t close with him; I’d only seen him twice in my life, but—’ Ron gestured to the file Harry held. ‘He’s a _Squib_.’

And if Trelawney was right—he was still alive.

#

Mafalda Morton, in a tight black dress that made her look like she had more curves than she really did and high heel shoes that brought her up to an average height, was just the type of girl John had gone after back when he'd still ran after them. There was a determination in her expression and strength in her stance that demanded she be taken seriously. It brought to mind the day he had met his wife—she'd been telling off a man who had the audacity to pinch her bum.

He’d been that man.

His wife told people they met by an accidental elbow at the theatre.

‘I do wish I didn’t have to bother you, but my father has been missing for three days. I’m sure you are aware of the likelihood of finding a missing person, a missing Squib, alive after three days. I just cannot wait any longer.’

There were no comforting words he could offer her. Each day that went by without the person found the better the chances that they were already dead. It was pointless to lie to her. It wouldn’t help either of them in the end.

‘We know there was a struggle, and looking at all the clues I can’t puzzle together why someone would want to take my father. I ward the house myself, Auror Dawlish, no Muggle could have got to him.’

John made a note of that to put in Henry Morton’s file. As Henry was a Squib living in a Muggle neighbourhood, John figured the Aurors must have known that, or the case never would have been filed with the Aurors in the first place. But facts had been known to slip through the cracks in other cases, too.

‘I’m afraid I can only allow you three more days—my nerves can’t handle a day more wondering what torture he might be going through. You know what people think of Squibs. How even good people treat them.’

‘I am truly sorry, Miss Morton.’ He gave her a smile, but something in the way she said _allow_ made his neck itch. It wasn’t a tone he’d heard from a grieving woman before—more like a cunning one about to set a trap. ‘But we are doing everything we can. It is impossible to guarantee a safe return by a specific date, no matter how much I might wish it.’

‘Perhaps I’ve not been clear.’ All grief disappeared from her voice then.

Ah, he was right. His pulse sped up, but not from fear or nervousness. He enjoyed the power he felt when he arrested people, but he found long ago it was much more satisfying when they never saw it coming. He paused his note-taking for the briefest of moments—pressed his lips into a thin line and dipped his quill into the ink—as he slipped another parchment over the one he was using with a quick and—if he did say so himself—sly movement.

It was not the first time someone had threatened him. She would elaborate soon enough, but the note would be written and sent off prior to her leaving the room. Parvati would have two Aurors waiting to arrest her; he just had to keep his hand from shaking until the moment came. The haughty expression melting off her beautiful face would give him something to think about while pleasing the missus for a good few months.

‘Are you married?’

John startled, fearing that she had been reading his thoughts. Judging by her look—waiting for his answer, not smug satisfaction—he guessed not and gave a slight nod.

‘Well, then. If you do not return my father to me _alive and well_ within the next three days, then I won’t be the only grieving party.’

Oh yes, he thought, biting his lip as he studied and memorised the smug look on her face. He’d enjoy watching her be bound and dragged away. He might even visit her later, if he found the time.

‘I understand,’ he said; he held her gaze to not call attention to the note he began to write. ‘This is a stressful—’ He choked and gasped for air, dropping his quill as he pulled at the invisible noose wrapped around his neck. There was nothing to pull on, but an instant later the air returned and—other than the small scratches that began to bleed about his neck from where his own fingernails had cut too deep—nothing signified anything unusual had transpired.

Mafalda sat as calm—no—calmer than before her attack and more than a bit satisfied.

John glanced down. He’d been unable to even write her name. He opened his mouth a few times as question after question died on his lips. He could speak nothing of her threat, nor write of it, or he felt his air cut off. He looked her over and saw her wand’s tip hidden in her left hand. Tricky witch. With no other choice, he took a deep breath and said, ‘I’ll keep in touch, Miss Morton.’

‘I’d appreciate it, Auror Dawlish.’

#

Harry tugged at his hair as he read over their notes. There had to be something in what Trelawney had said that could help them. He thought over the years and tried to remember if anything she’d said had become true before. It didn’t matter either way, because what she saw was useless. He looked up and watched Draco reading a file, squinting slightly. Would it be as easy as taking him out to dinner?’

A memo flew through their door. Draco stood and caught it before it could make its way to Harry. Harry smiled thinking of their Seeker match. He should have kissed him again. Yet, they were co-workers. As frustrating as his job was he did love it. And Draco worked too hard to get where he was to give it up over an office romance.

‘Dawlish.’ Draco shook his head with a dry, humourless laugh. ‘Wants us stop looking into Trelawney’s clues and “hit the streets” looking for witnesses that might have seen who took Morton.’

‘Haven’t multiple Aurors already done that?’

‘That’s what I’ve been reading all afternoon.’

‘Fine. Let’s go. Why not? We’re the Cold Case Division.’ Harry sighed and stood up. ‘This is what we do, right? Clean up after Aurors who couldn’t get it right the first time. No, he’s right. We should be on the street—maybe we’ll just run into Morton.’ He went for his cloak, but Draco grabbed his arm, spinning him around.

‘We both know what we need to do.’

Harry stared into Draco’s cold eyes. ‘You believe that?’ He knew that Draco did believe in the prophecy; it was why he had picked Trelawney.

‘You see magic work every day; why can’t you trust in this?’

‘If you believe in it so much, why didn’t you just ask me out to dinner?’

‘Because you’re supposed to ask me!’

‘What?’

‘She said, “Excellent choice, Mr Potter” which suggests you are the one who asks me to dinner. We could eat every meal together every day, but until you ask me out on a date it won’t be the one!’

‘Relationships don’t work like that; it could take ages.’

‘I’ve noticed.’

Harry spelled the room to be silent to anyone passing in the hall and pulled Draco into a kiss. Draco was the most difficult person to read. He stayed on the other side of the room all day, reading and acting as though nothing had changed, but then it was Harry’s fault for not going out on the limb?

It was the worst time for this. Harry needed to ask him out to dinner and get it over with. He knew that. It’d work or it wouldn’t, but why did their case have to hang in the balance as well?

Draco kissed him back.

And Harry didn’t care anymore that they had a case to solve. It could wait a few minutes. He let himself believe Trelawney. She was right this time, and he just had to let time takes its course.

Draco pushed him backwards, until he fell into one of their chairs. The one that sat in front of his desk? Harry wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to look away from Draco to check.

It wasn’t important.

No one could see them, and no one could hear them. Draco was slipping out of his robes in front of him. Those things were important. Draco continued his slow but determined progress through the insane amount of buttons down his robe. He smirked and Harry realise his mouth was hanging opened.

Harry swallowed and said, ‘You never told me what you wanted for beating me to the Snitch.’

‘I thought you already knew.’ Draco slipped his robes off his shoulders and began to undo his trousers. ‘Are you going to take off your clothes, or do you not want to do this?’

Harry tore at his robes. What was the purpose of having so many buttons on their robes? He fumbled through the last few, and was still working on his trousers, when Draco—naked except for his boots—climbed onto his lap. He pushed them and his pants passed his knees just before Draco sat, bringing their erections together.

Draco wasted no time. He fired off the needed spells. He lifted and guided Harry’s erection into him. They had no time to waste. They’d already wasted too much.

They were far quieter than Harry imagined they’d be. He was so used to the noise of their daily interactions. Their banter. Their disagreements. Their fighting. Like they were just before Harry kissed him not twenty minutes earlier. Harry realised the silence in the hall was much more suspicious than any kind of noise would have been. Heavy breathing could mean a lull in the fight; silence screamed they were hiding something.

Draco rocked gradually gaining speed. Harry held onto his hips. Draco kissed him as the pressure slowly built up.

There was a knock on the door.

They both startled at the sound. Draco’s eyes were wide, but he kissed Harry harder. They were so close. Draco rode him faster and faster. He was moaning into Harry's mouth as he came. Harry came just after when Draco was already firing off spells to clean them up quickly. His hair was fixed before he stood to put his robes on, for which he used a spell as well. Harry didn’t trust his legs to stand yet, but spelled his robes back on and pulled at his hair.

Another knock.

‘Coming.’ Draco blushed and looked away from Harry.

Harry remembered the silencing spell and ended it just as Draco was opening to door.

A short woman who looked as though she’d been crying entered their office. Harry forced himself to stand up. He hoped she didn’t notice that his legs shook. She introduced herself as Mafalda Morton and Draco offered her a chair. She sat in the one Harry had just stood up from. Harry couldn’t look at her. Draco’s blush grew darker. She seemed unfazed by their odd behaviour.

Harry didn’t catch why she was there, but he didn’t want to interrupt her and feel foolish for not paying attention.

‘You were a Slytherin, Malfoy, you know what it’s like,’ she said. Draco nodded, and she said, ‘My mother is a Muggle and hated my father’s side of the family, because of the way he was treated. They were never cruel, don’t think that. It was just—exclusion. He used to say it was like going to the most amazing toy store, but not be allowed to touch or take anything home.

His presence made them self-conscious and worried about what they talked of. “Oh, don’t talk about that in front of Henry” type of thing. He was interested, but told not to ask questions. He was happy for me when I got my Hogwarts letter. He was happy I could be apart of the world he couldn’t. Never bitter. He is never bitter. He enjoys his life. And, of course, he asked me everything he ever wanted to ask them.

I got to teach him everything about the world he grew up in—you can imagine how exciting that is for an eleven-year-old girl.’

Mafalda’s eyes watered as she took a breath. ‘It is just... I fear his case won’t be taken seriously. Not only is he a Squib, but an un-influential one. The only person in this world who cares about him is me. Isn’t that why they chose him? Why whoever they are have been choosing all of them? No one here would notice or care they went missing, and no one there could ever catch them?’

‘We care,’ Harry said. He took her hand and squeezed it. ‘We’re working on this and we’re doing everything we can to find Henry.’ His stomach twisted at his words, because he hadn’t. He still hadn’t asked Draco out on a date.

‘My father raised me on stories about you.’ She smiled, obviously remembering something. ‘When I came to Hogwarts, everyone assumed I knew nothing. I know you never noticed me, but I was in awe of you my first few years there. My father always found my stories of you much more interesting than his own. You are a major character in the stories we share. If anyone can find him it’s you, Harry Potter.’ She looked at Malfoy. ‘The both of you. You were another of our favourite characters to talk about. Stories are no good without a villain, and we choose not to talk about the real one.’ 

Harry didn’t know what to say, but Draco smirked at this.

‘Thank you, gentlemen. I feel much better knowing this is in your hands.’

Draco took her hand after Harry released it, and kissed it. ‘We won’t let you down,’ he said with more certainty than Harry felt about the situation.

Once Mafalda Morton was out the door, Draco said, ‘She used to follow me around and take notes on what I was doing. Some really absurd things: “took two baths today, has changed his favourite adjective to describe Harry Potter, and only yelled at me four times to leave him alone; he must be warming up to me”.’

Harry smiled and reached for Draco’s hand, but Draco stepped away. ‘That was too close, Harry.’

‘I know.’ Harry shuffled his feet, scuffing his shoes against the floor. ‘It’s a risk.’

He didn’t have the courage to ask Draco if he felt it was worth it.

# 

Three days. John had three days to release himself from a curse he didn’t know the bloody name of. Because even if Potter found Morton—and with Potter’s luck, he would—John’s own luck meant the Squib would be already dead. Even when the noose disappeared, letting him breathe freely, John felt it hanging around his neck.

It had been years since he had studied for a case, and his pulse raced as he walked to his familiar old stomping ground. He did so with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Excitement as he raced against time to figure out a puzzle before it was too late. Trepidation, because for the first time it was his own life at stake. He knew the effects of Mafalda's curse were much the same as the Unbreakable Vow, so he decided it was a safe bet to start there. He pulled three books off the shelves and found a quiet place to read.

# 

The next morning, John watched his wife make his coffee. She moved around the kitchen, spelling down the loose floorboard that he tripped over on his way in, and dodging it as she went about her day. He’d promised to fix it proper ages ago, but had never found the time. After a few months, she had quit asking.

He sipped the coffee and took the time to appreciate the warmth as it spread through him, waking him up for the day. She fried sausage. He moved to take the paper—his routine for the morning—but he stopped himself. She had his back to him. He tried to remember the last time they’d said more than ‘goodbye, have a good day’ to each other in the morning. He tried to remember the last time they’d even said that.

He couldn’t remember.

He went and grabbed the tools he needed and fixed the floorboard; it only took a moment. His wife stared at him surprised, so he kissed her cheek before he put his tools away. Upon his return, breakfast was ready and she sat to join him. They traded sections of the paper as they ate much like every other morning. Their routine had taken years—hard, difficult years—to form together.

It was a comfort he never recognised as such.

‘Everything all right?’ She glanced at him and then down at the paper. ‘You seem a bit off this morning.’

‘Same as always.’ He smiled at her. He reached out to pat her hand, but her expression stopped him. It wasn’t pleased. It wasn’t grateful. Not even amused. It was concerned. He stood, gathered his things and kissed her cheek before he left. Same as always; except for the lump in his throat, the secret around his neck, and the lingering want after the kiss.

John had feared the spell might stop him from reading about anything conspicuous as well, but it let him be, no matter what book he searched through. No one thought, or at least no one said anything about him spending the day in the library. Ten books later and no luck. Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five books and then the words blurred together and he could read anymore.

He checked out the next few books on his list of far too many and headed to lunch. It wouldn’t do to starve himself. He read in between his office duties, but by the end of the day he was no closer to being free.

He’d figure it out.

Yet when he entered his home that evening, he took one look at his wife and ran for the toilet. Yes, he was sick, but it was nothing to worry about he told his wife. What else caused vomiting but a simple stomach flu? No, he didn’t need a potion. Just a bit of rest. Rest and to read. Rest and to read. He’d have to go to work early the next day.

It would be his last day.

#

It took Harry a couple more days to actually form the words, ‘Would you like to go to dinner with me?’

He knew the answer was yes, but he feared it was really ‘Of course, because I believe our case depends on this, you fool, what took you so long.’ Harry knew magic worked. He trusted in it daily. But that type of magic made him uneasy. He had no control over it. What if he picked the wrong place? What if he asked on the wrong night? Could knowing the future make him accidently make it not happen?

They didn’t have a reservation, but it turned out that Harry Potter didn’t need one.

‘Good evening, I’m Albert, and I’ll be your waiter this evening. Could I start you off with a bottle of wine?’

‘Yes,’ Draco answered before Harry could protest. It was meant to be a date, not for the case but for them. He needed to relax. Everything would come together if he let it, but it was difficult when in the back of his mind someone was screaming _find the red door_. He hadn’t seen one on the way in and there wasn’t one inside the restaurant.

The wine helped.

Draco’s foot slipped in between Harry’s legs under the table. He was too relaxed to feel nervous and caught Draco’s leg in between his own. Harry refused to let go causing Draco to blush. He’d touch Draco’s hand as though getting his attention—though he already had it—during their conversations of everything except work. And they listened to Trelawney’s advice. Draco ordered the duck. Harry didn’t try to rush the meal and ordered dessert.

They exited the restaurant. The crisp, cool air woke them from their alcohol-induced carelessness, making them feel nervous and awkward.

Draco made the night look beautiful with its misty air surrounding him. Harry leaned in, letting the world and the space between them fall away, until the voices of other diners startled him. They moved out of the way, and then continued to walk. They had nowhere to go, but they didn’t want to leave yet.

They knew they couldn’t leave yet.

If it were a proper date, this would be the point when they kissed. Much like the other morning, Harry hesitated. He wanted to, knew he could, but was afraid to ruin the moment by going too fast. This wasn’t a real date, it could be the wrong night, and Harry was sure it wouldn’t work.

‘Bloody hell, there’s a red door.’

#

John took a deep breath and got himself another cup of tea. He focused on nothing but brewing process. He watched the water steam and then it start to boil, the tea swirl and change the colour of the water, the sugar dissolve as he stirred it in.

It soothed him as he cried.

Mafalda had said three days, but John wished she’d been more specific. He should have asked her. Would he die at midnight? Or would it be the next morning, precisely three days after she’d cast the spell?

It was late in the evening, far past the usual time for him to return home. His wife would be worried, but not surprised at his lateness. There was no hiding how stressed he was from her; she attributed it his job, as always, with the political climate so tense since the first deaths.

He should go home and spend one more night with her.

#

Draco took the front while Harry went around the back.

He could hear Draco knocking on the front door and saw someone move inside the house. But no lights came on. Whoever was there didn’t want to be seen. Harry could tell they were headed for the back. He had his wand out, ready to stop them. When he crept to the door, it burst open. Wooden splinters flew all around. And he fell back as a man ran out.

Harry chased after him. He cast stunners that missed. The man sent rocks from the ground flying back at him. Then he stopped running, and turned to face Harry. He was out of breath. With one last Stupefy the man was down. He was huge. His wrist was Splinched. He must have tried to Disapparate when he’d heard them outside. It was not a clean cut, so Harry healed it the best he could.

Draco came from the house with Morton who was pale and shaky. ‘Idiot nearly Splinched them both.’

‘Are you all right?’ Harry asked Morton.

Morton nodded, but Draco said, ‘I’m taking him to St Mungo’s.’

‘And I’ll take this guy to the Ministry.’ Harry pointed towards the man on the ground and checked the time. ‘Meet me there at half past?’

Draco nodded, and Harry took a hold of the man and Apparated to the Ministry.

#

John was surprised to find his wife waiting up for him. She hadn’t done that in years. Tea and biscuits were set for him on the table. He’d had enough tea for the night, but picked up a biscuit. He’d never thought how lonely it must be for her, being his wife. The politics of his work must have affected her. She never complained about it.

He drank the tea after all—it could very well be the last cup he had with her. When they’d finished, he took her hand in his, turned it palm up, and kissed it.

It was the way, he’d first kissed her.

He’d asked her.

She’d said yes.

And he kissed her palm, instead of her mouth.

It was time he gave her a surprise as well; showed her how much he appreciated her and still loved her after all these years. He only hoped they wouldn't break the table, but then he thought: fuck the table.

#

Draco sat across from the suspect and took notes on everything he said. The man was a half-blood wizard called Andrew Penbrooke. They'd left him overnight in a holding cell, as it was well past ten o’clock when they had booked him. The morning was a better time for an interrogation, after a good night’s sleep.

Harry paced around the room and asked the questions. But Penbrooked claimed to have been the hired muscle only. ‘I’m telling you. I don’t know anything. They never told me what they wanted them for. Just gave me a location, the description of the person, and then a meet up place afterwards. She didn’t show up; it’s the only reason we were still there.’

Draco noted the ‘she’ without taking his eyes off Penbrooke. Harry took that as a sign to not let Penbrooke know he’d let the sex of his boss slip yet.

‘You have no idea what they might want the Squibs and Muggles for?’

‘No more than you—I’ve thought about it, of course, but they didn’t want them dead; I reckon they’re worked them.’

‘How about this,’ Draco said. ‘We’ll drop the murder charges if you can give us the locations of all of your drop-off places and appointments.’ There were never any murder charges against Penbrooke, at least, not yet. The Kidnapping was the only crime they had evidence for.

‘I only ever saw her at the drop-offs. Everything else she sent me through the mail.’

‘The mail?’

Penbrooke swallowed. ‘Yes, she gave me a key for a mailbox.’

Harry held his hand out for the key. Reluctantly Penbrooke gave it to him. Harry left the room to give the key to Ron and Iris. They’d been watching from the observation room.

‘You should have dusted it for fingerprints.’

‘It would only be covered in his—he’s the one who’s been carrying it. It needs to be checked for magic though.’ Harry handed over to Ron. ‘Can you two do that and then go out to the mailbox?’

‘Alright, mate.’ Ron left the room, but stopped outside the door to wait for Iris.

Iris hesitated, obviously wanting to see what else they got out of Penbrooke, but after a moment she nodded and followed Ron. Harry wished he could trade places with her—the mystery that might be lurking in the box was more interesting than anything else that Penbrooke would give them. When he returned to the room, Draco made a list of all the drop-off places as Penbrooke named them.

When he was finished, Harry asked, ‘Do you always work alone?’

‘No, but the bloke I worked with Splinched himself a couple weeks ago.’

Harry nodded. ‘And the person you meet? Who are they? Do you have a name for—’

‘No.’ Penbrooke paused and looked to the left. ‘It’s a different bloke each time.’

‘Never a woman?’ Draco asked.

Penbrooke shrugged. ‘Sometimes, but more often a man. Bloke probably uses Polyjuice. But I never got a name, and I haven’t a way to contact him.’

After they had escorted him back to his cell, Harry said, ‘He’s lying –’

‘Of course he’s lying. Did you expect him to tell us the truth? The important part is figuring out what he’s lying about and when he actually has been saying the truth.’

Harry rolled his eyes. ‘If you’d let me finish—what I meant is, he was obviously lying about the Polyjuice. He knows it is _woman_ and exactly what she looks like.’

‘He gave us the two drop-offs we know were used, but I don’t trust half of these. He’s trying to waste our time.’

‘Hey, Harry.’ Ron ran toward them, with Iris following him. ‘You headed to your office?’ He shook an envelope in his hand as Harry nodded and said, ‘Yeah, mate. What’d you find in the box?’

‘Their next target,’ Iris answered, smiling. ‘Phineas Doyle. We are heading there now. We were just arranging a safe house for him and his family.’

‘Muggleborn,’ Ron said. ‘So it’ll be a quick move—they already know about us, we can use magic—you want to come along?’

Harry looked at Draco, who shrugged. ‘No, though,' Harry said. 'I want to get this added to the file. Meet up with us after everything settle, yeah?’

Ron and Iris were off again, and Harry and Draco went on their way.

‘So,’ Draco said, ‘do you believe in Divination now?’

Harry forced a laugh. ‘Trelawney was still wrong a lot of time.’ He checked the hallway to make sure they were alone and reached for Draco who backed away.

‘It’s a risk, Harry.’

He nodded. ‘Do you not feel it is worth it?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never been much of a risk taker.’ Draco looked away from him. ‘But I’m thinking about it.’

#

John woke to an owl. The note it carried informed him that Henry Morton had been found. Mafalda would meet him in his office at 9.30. Though he could still feel the noose, he breathed easier. His wife was already awake and making breakfast when he made it downstairs. She smiled at him as he kissed her cheek. The kitchen table had survived, and they smirked at each other as they sat down at it.

‘You’re in a good mood this morning,’ she said.

He couldn’t explain to her what brought on the change, so he said, ‘Well, I had good night.’

‘Oh really?’ She laughed.

John couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her laugh. ‘Amelia.’

‘Yes, John?’

‘I love you. You know that, right?’

‘If I didn’t know, I wouldn’t still be here.’

#

John went straight to his office, nodded to Parvati and informed her to let Mafalda Morton in as soon as she arrived. It was dark and quiet in the room, and he left it that way hoping it would unnerve her. But she entered, he regretted it—her small form was even more imposing with the shadows forming a giant beast behind her.

‘Is that it? Is it over? Or do you need to—’ He gestured casting a spell with his wand. 

She smirked at the dark surroundings and gave him a questioning look. ‘Just a little.’ And repeated his hand gesture.

Even with his wand in his hand, it was too late for him to respond when he realised the spell she’d cast. Obliviate. It already started to melt his incriminating memories way. It changed the reasons for the events of the last few days. He’d studied in the library to impress a young witch with his knowledge, not to free himself from a dark spell. He’d told Potter and Malfoy to search for Henry Morton to give him time to spend with her, not to save his life. And he came to appreciate his wife because of the young witch who reminded him of her younger self.

‘Just relax, Auror Dawlish, just relax your mind. Let it go.’ She held his arm steady, and then pressed her small frame against his side. ‘I’m very sorry and ever so grateful for your help in returning my father to me. But I can’t in good conscience continue an affair with a married man.’

She kissed his cheek and stepped away.

‘Yes, of course—I’m ashamed of my behaviour.’ The words fell from his mouth though he couldn’t place their source. He was not ashamed of his behaviour. He loved his wife, of course, and would never leave her, but the last few days with Mafalda had made him feel more alive than he’d been in ages. He reached for her. ‘Please.’

‘No.’ She stepped farther away. ‘Promise to think of me,’ she said and her voice was shaking.

Her hand waited on the doorknob. He remembered when it had gripped his kitchen table during sex. Where had his wife been that day? Asleep upstairs? How foolish of him. His stomach dropped at the thought of what he risked losing to relive a memory. Perhaps it was better this way.

John walked to her. He took her free hand, turning it palm up and kissed it.

‘I’ll always think of you.’

_TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK..._


	9. Episode #9: The Research

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a Muggle geneticist turns up missing, Harry, Iris, and Draco investigate. Meanwhile, Harry is unsure where he and Draco stand.

"Fuck, Malfoy." Harry threw his head back and grabbed a fistful of Draco's hair, pushing him down to his cock.

Harry wasn't sure how this had become a normal thing. After their first time together a week before, they had hardly been able to keep their hands off of each other for longer than several hours. Snogging sessions took place in the loo, in Harry's office, in Draco's loft, in Harry's kitchen. Hell, Harry had managed to get Draco off in a session in the Ministry lift.

Draco's tongue swirled around Harry's cock, and he snapped back to the moment. Harry fought from thrusting his hips forward. From what he gathered from their previous experiences, Draco liked to be in control. He knew exactly what he was doing, and Harry had no complaints so far.

While this was nice and all, Harry wasn't sure what it all meant. Were they just fucking? Would it lead to something more? That motorcycle ride together a few weeks before had seemed as though it would. Yet, when they were working, Draco was nothing but professional.

Did Harry want Draco Malfoy to be his boyfriend? It surprised him that he smiled at the thought.

Just then, Draco took the full hilt of Harry's prick into his mouth, and Harry lost his ability to think. He watched the blond hair fall in front of Draco's shoulders. Harry felt sweat-beaded arms slip under his back, pulling his body closer to Draco's mouth. Harry couldn't help but moan. He wouldn't be able to last for long.

A beeping sound filled the room. Even though his eyes were closed, Harry could see both their wands beaming a blue light at the tip. For once, someone had used a wand notification method to call them in, instead of Floo. Perhaps after working with the Muggle police, the heads of the Ministry realized that Muggles had a much easier time contacting their employees. 

Harry heard Draco groan. Suddenly, the warmth of his mouth was gone, and replaced by cool breeze. He shivered.

"Potter."

Harry kept his eyes closed, hoping that Draco would get back to his cock.

"Harry."

He opened his eyes. "What?"

"We're being called in."

Harry sat up and looked at his unsated cock; it was starting to look a bit droopy. "Is this about the Squib killings?"

"I would guess so."

Harry glanced around, "Where are my trousers?"

Draco pointed to the ceiling fan, hiding an embarrassed smile. "Not sure how they got up there."

Several minutes later, they were dressed and Apparated to the Ministry.  
"Who called us in?" Harry turned to Draco.

"Who do you think?" Draco motioned to Dawlish's office. "He still wants to feel like he is a part of the team."

Harry grinned at Draco, spending just a fraction of a second too long staring into his eyes. Harry's ears burned, and both men quickly looked down.

Draco knocked on the door and stepped inside. "You wanted to see us?"

They each took a seat in front of Dawlish’s desk and looked at him, waiting for him to speak.

Dawlish hardly looked at them, and spoke in short, clipped sentences. "A Muggle scientist is missing. Detective Bustamant is adamant that this pertains to your case."

Harry took out his notebook and began writing. A Muggle scientist?

"Detective Bustamant will meet you outside St. Mungo's. The research lab is a short walk from there. That is all."

Harry stifled a smile. He recognized it was immature but he couldn't help but feel smug that, despite Dawlish's opposition, Harry was still a part of this investigation. While trying to ruin Harry's career, he had managed to put Harry in an even better light with the Ministry and Auror Department.

He and Draco rose and stepped out of Dawlish's office.

"I suppose we should head over to meet Iris." Draco surprised Harry by taking his hand.

"What are you—" Harry started speaking, but was cut off by the squashing feeling of Apparation.

They reemerged in an alley near St. Mungo's. Iris stood near the entrance, looking rather impatient. Her expression brightened when she saw Harry and Draco approaching. A grin spread across her face as she looked them up and down.

"Auror Malfoy, your hair is a little messy. Did we wake you?"

Draco ran his fingers through his hair. "It is most certainly not messy."

Iris shrugged. "I know what bed tousled hair looks like."

Harry rolled his eyes at Iris. "Let's discuss the case. Dawlish said this kidnapping is related to the Squib murders?"

Iris nodded. "Remember that genetics lead we followed up on a few weeks ago? One of the lead members who created that system went missing three days ago. I don't think it's a coincidence."

Draco pursed his lips. Harry watched his eyes glaze over as they turned upwards, deep in thought. He loved how Draco got lost in his thoughts.

"We should visit the team of scientists first." Draco reached out for the file in Iris's hands. His eyes quickly scanned the file. Harry leaned in, so that he could both read the case and smell Draco's hair.

"They were all geneticists?" Harry looked up at Iris, who nodded. "We're lucky Draco knows at least a little bit about the science behind genetics."

They began walking. Iris was reluctant to Apparate or Floo again. Harry didn't blame her; if he could, he'd travel by broomstick everywhere.

"Does anyone on the team know about the Wizarding World?" Draco looked at Iris, who shook her head.

"No, they are all quite oblivious to magic. Now that I've seen how you lot carry on, I can't imagine why I didn't see it before."

"What do you mean?" Draco furrowed his brows.

"You aren't exactly subtle in many of your practices. I saw several wizards Apparate straight out of the pub last night. People walk straight past the Leaky Cauldron as though it isn't there."

Harry shrugged. "I think magic is only noticeable if you are looking for it."

"And those without magic who do look for it are often regarded as paranoid conspiracy theorists." Iris shook her head.

They stood in front of a sleek, modern building. It was called the Neumann Center for Genetic Research. As they stepped inside, they were immediately greeted by a security guard, who began patting them down.

"Excuse me!" Draco eyed the guard with distaste. "I am law enforcement!"

Iris, Harry, and Draco took out their badges to show the guard. He muttered a few select words under his breath, and then regained his professional manner. "If you're here why I think you are, you understand why I am required to search everyone."

"Well, perhaps you should buy a bloke dinner first before you start groping me." Draco glared at the man and walked up to the receptionist's desk.

Iris and Harry exchanged a look, and followed Draco.

"Welcome to the Neumann Center. Please sign in. How can I help you?" The receptionist smiled at them.

Iris picked up the pen and signed them in. Harry stepped forward. "I'm Special Agent Potter, these are my colleagues Agent Malfoy and Detective Inspector Bustamant. We need to speak with Dr. Mahoney and her team regarding Dr. Laurent."

The smile vanished from the receptionist's face. "Is he really missing?"

"That's not really—" Draco started to speak, but Iris interrupted him.

"Unfortunately, he has been declared missing. When was the last time you saw Dr. Laurent?"

"I saw him on Monday night. He was leaving just as I was. He even held the door open for me." Her head dropped down and she stared at her keyboard. A moment later, she perked her head back up and issued them three visitor passes. "Dr. Mahoney is on the fifth floor. I hope you find him."

"So do we, ma'am." Harry patted her hand as he took the passes. He turned to Iris and Draco. "Let's go."

**

A lift ride, a slight panic attack from Draco's end, and a gentle backhand on the head from Iris, the trio stood in front of a tall, red-haired woman.

"Dr. Mahoney?” Harry held out his hand. “I’m Detective Potter, and these are my associates, Malfoy and Bustamant.”

She nodded and shook Harry’s hand. "Call me Margaret. What can I do for you?"

"Margaret, we are here on behalf of the police force. We'd like to ask you a few questions about Dr. Laurent."

She paled. "He really is missing, isn't he?"

"Can you tell us if he had any enemies?" Iris took out her notepad and pen.

"Not Tyler. Everyone loved him. He helped us get funding."

"For what?" Harry looked around the lab. "It seems as though you got an awful lot of it."

Margaret gave him a harsh look. "We were originally part of the Human Genome Project. Nearly everyone in the building was paid for work out of that contract. When it ended in 2003, Tyler was able to secure funding from private donors to continue the work."

"What's the Human Genome Project?" Draco glanced at Harry and Iris, who both looked equally mystified.

"About thirty years ago, a worldwide collaboration began, known as the Human Genome Project. Our goal was to map and analyze the human genome. As you are probably aware, DNA can tell us an inordinate amount of information regarding human health, appearance, and evolution. Our team started here in 1999, and finished four years later. We worked on chromosome 2 in particular."

Harry nodded. "Since then, what have you been working on?"

"We're still spending a lot of time on chromosome 2. Chromosome 2 is believed to be the evolutionary marker that separated us from chimpanzees hundreds of thousands of years ago. If we can prove that, it could potentially make evolution nearly impossible to refute."

"You, Dr. Laurent, and your team worked on this together?" Iris scribbled in her notebook as she spoke.

Margaret nodded. "We were working on it, and bloody close to discovering something."

Harry caught on to the frustrated tone in her voice. "Until?"

She sighed. "Until another team stepped in six months ago. They had been given orders from the government to take over. Apparently, they were the experts in chromosome 2. Since then, we've been focusing on deletion syndromes which cause body deformities."

"That probably irked Dr. Laurent, didn't it?" Draco's voice sounded sympathetic.

"He tried to speak with Dr. Urquart, but he wouldn't listen."

"Dr. Urquart?" Draco seemed excited. Harry gave him a curious look, but Draco waved him off. "Malcolm Urquart?"

"The very one." Margaret pursed her lips. "It happens all the time, though. Scientists or their sponsors get a whiff of major research being done, and everybody wants a bit of glory."

"Thank you, Margaret. We will let you know if we find anything. Detective Bustamant? Potter? We can go."

They followed Draco and once in the lift, bombarded him with questions.

"We didn't spend more than five minutes with her!"

"She barely spoke of Dr. Laurent!"

"We didn't even search the place!"

"Harry. Iris. Calm down." Draco patted them both on the shoulder. Harry leaned into the touch perhaps a little too much. "Malcolm Urquart works in the Research Wing at St. Mungo's. He and his team are contracted out through the Department of Mysteries. The last I heard of their work, they were reviewing scientific Muggle research and comparing it to their own."

"Draco, that's brilliant!"

Iris looked at Draco with a quizzical expression. "Are you saying that a group of wizards were interested in what a bunch of Muggles were researching?"

Draco nodded, the smile taking up most of his face. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

Harry had to resist the urge to kiss Draco right then and there. It wasn't as though he hadn't been thinking about it all morning, though.

**

"I thought you said I wasn't allowed in magical places!" Iris nudged Draco's arm as they approached St. Mungo's.

"This is for interrogation purposes. You'll do fine here." Harry spoke in a reassuring voice. Plus, it wasn't as though any of them were particularly obsessed with following the rules.

"As long as you're sure."

"Do you not want to help conduct the interview?" Draco raised his eyebrows at her.

That seemed enough to convince Iris. Harry and Draco flashed their badges to the security and headed to the sixth floor—the recently renovated research wing.

As they approached the front desk, Harry saw posters of moving scientists. They were holding their research in their hands and smirking at the camera. He recognized a large number of famous Ravenclaws.

Iris dropped her voice so only Harry and Draco could hear her. "The moving portraits are still incredibly off-putting."

"You get used to them eventually." Harry patted her shoulder. "I still remember the first time I saw Dumbledore's Chocolate Frog."

"That sounds disgusting."

"Ahem."

Harry and Iris looked up and realized they were standing at the receptionist's desk. 

"How can I help you, Auror Potter?" The receptionist appeared to be in awe that she was standing in Harry's presence.

Harry's ears felt warm. He could practically feel the smirk from Draco penetrating him. How he wished something else were penetrating him!

He quickly coughed to pull himself out of _that_ thought. "Could you please direct us to Urquart's team?"

"He isn't in. Is that alright?"

"Who is in charge when he isn't around?"

She smiled. "That would be Roger Davies and Edmund Grayson. They are both team leads. Their office is down the left hall and two doors on the right. I'll let them know you are on your way."

"Thank you!" Iris waved and ushered Harry and Draco down the hall. "Sir Walter Harrison wouldn't stop winking at me!"

Draco chuckled. "From all accounts, he loved female Muggles."

They knocked on the door, labeled R. Davies and E. Grayson. The door opened and Roger Davies' face erupted in a large grin. "Harry! Good to see you!" He motioned behind him to an older, balding wizard in his fifties. "This is Edmund Grayson. We work together on Urquart's team."

"You know Unspeakable Malfoy, and this is Detective Inspector Bustamant. Roger, Grayson , can we ask you a few questions about your work?"

Roger Summoned several chairs, and sat in one himself. "Sure! What do you need to know?"

Draco spoke first. "Is it true you took over research from a Muggle team on genetics?"

Roger nodded. Harry watched as Roger leaned forward and rested his chin on his hand. Grayson also shifted in his seat. "That is true."

"What would a group of wizards want with Muggle research on DNA?" Harry watched Grayson scratch behind his ear and purse his lips.

"I'm afraid that's confidential." Roger sat back.

"As an Unspeakable, I am at a level two clearance." Draco narrowed his eyes at Roger.

"Yes, but they are not." Grayson motioned to Harry and Iris.

Harry turned his gaze on Grayson. "We are investigating a serial killer. Anything relevant to our case is clearance to us."

"The only other person who knows exactly what we are doing here is Urquhart. No one else on the team knows the full extent of our project. I'm sorry, Auror Potter, but this is also a security issue. If you knew what we were doing, it could get out and thousands of people's lives could be in danger."

Harry had an idea of what this research was about, but didn't want to say anything unless he knew for sure. "Can you tell us why you took the project from the Muggle research team?"

"The head of St. Mungo's Research Division feared their project could cause a discovery that would allow _them_ to breach our Statute of Secrecy. If they found out that wizards existed, could you imagine what would happen?"

Iris held up her hand. "Hold on. Are you saying that their work would have led them to discover wizards?"

Roger nodded. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

Chills ran down Harry's body. "Their research was leading them to the discovery of a gene that could identify wizards."

Roger shook his head. "Not exactly. We—"

Grayson elbowed Roger in the side. "We've already told them too much. I will _not_ be responsible for any child's death. Plus, _that_ one is a Malfoy, and _that_ Muggle already knows too much."

"Excuse me?" Draco stood up. "My family has done a lot of horrid things, but I am an Unspeakable, and guard more secrets than you ever will."

"Horrid things?" Grayson glared at Draco. "Horrid doesn't begin to describe what I've seen your family do."

Just as Draco's face began to look the color of a grape, Harry grabbed hold of his hand, threading Draco's fingers with his own. "Let's not start anything. We need answers. A Muggle is missing. We want to find him before he is killed. Please, Roger. Anything that you can tell us will help."

Grayson turned to Harry, his face softening slightly. "Someone is missing?"

Harry nodded. "Someone is killing Squibs, and we think that this Muggle may have known something. All we are trying to do is save him, including Draco."

At that moment, everyone realized that he and Draco were still holding hands. Harry released Draco's hand, and casually dropped his own hand into his lap.

It was silent for several moments until Grayson spoke up. "The Muggles were investigating a deletion pattern in chromosome 2. In most cases, deletion patterns result in extreme mental incapacitation. In this instance, it seems to produce wizards."

Draco's jaw dropped open. "The Muggles discovered how to identify wizards?"

Grayson nodded. "That was Urquhart's fear. It's why we took over their project. It's also why we've kept it extremely confidential. Could you imagine what someone like You Know Who could do with that information?"

Harry and Draco nodded, both paling. "It's been several months since you took their project away. What have you discovered?"

"A fair amount." Grayson smiled. "We took samples from wizards who had participated in some of the DNA projects around the world. While most of them followed the deletion pattern in chromosome two, there were several prominent Pureblood wizards who did not have the genetic markup."

"You didn't find it, then? The 'Wizard Gene’?" Iris leaned forward.

Grayson shook his head. "In doing this research, we discovered that the ability to hold magic, as well as magical skill and power, has nothing to do with family."

"That we've seen so far." Roger patted Grayson's shoulder. "We'll find it."

"What do you mean that it doesn't have anything to do with family?"

"For example, the first thing we discovered is that the age of either or both parents makes no difference in their offspring's magical ability." Grayson gestured to Harry. "The fact that you are a powerful wizard has nothing to do with the fact that your parents were so young when they had you."

Draco leaned in towards Harry. "That means we could prove that Enid Longbottom's age had nothing to do with Sarah's latent magic ."

Harry turned to Draco and grinned. Draco was still thinking about that case in a time like this? He was so smitten with Draco, it made _him_ sick.

"What we've been looking into more is the difference in genetic makeup for Squibs, Muggleborns, Purebloods, and the rest of the spectrum of magical ability. If there's anything my research in the past has taught me, there is an explanation for everything." Roger spoke with passion, his voice rising.

"Roger, there may not be an explanation for why some people have magic and others don't." Grayson chuckled. "I've been doing genetic research for nearly thirty years, and this is the closest I've ever come to finding anything resembling a 'Wizard Gene'."

"We just need to keep looking. Despite its dangers, can you imagine what the discovery of something like that would do for researchers everywhere?"

Draco chuckled. "You'd be famous, and probably become very rich."

Roger turned to Draco, looking less than amused. "Do you think I do this research for money or fame? Malfoy, I want to find this for myself. Finding an explanation for what makes a wizard a wizard is the greatest intellectual challenge I've ever attempted. I would do anything to accomplish it."

"Murder?" Draco's voice was casual, but filled with curiosity.

Grayson scoffed. "We don't receive bodies in this lab. All we get are the DNA samples, Unspeakable Malfoy. All of the samples we get are easily traced to databases. On top of that, all of the databases use DNA that was willingly given to them." He clapped his hands. "Now that _that_ is cleared up, is there anything else we can help you with? Any more accusations you want to make at us?"

"You said you didn't want anyone else knowing about this. What would you have done if you actually _had_ discovered the Wizard Gene?" Iris crossed her arms.

"We would have approached the Minister and seen what he wanted to do." Grayson shrugged. "We do the research, not the publicity."

"If that's all, we have centrifuges to attend to." Roger stood up and showed them to the doorway.

"Yes, thank you. We may need to contact you and Grayson again. You may be of use in explaining some of the science to us." Harry shook Roger's hand and smiled.

Harry, Draco, and Iris walked out of the office, and out of St. Mungo's in silence. Once they were out of the building, Draco turned to Harry and Iris. "Do you think they told us everything?"

Iris shook her head. "I doubt it. They clearly didn't want their research getting out."

Draco spoke up in a soft, pensive voice. "Not that I blame them."

Draco’s 'words surprised Harry. Out of all of them, he expected Draco to be more interested in the research Urquhart's team was doing. At Harry's surprised face, Draco smiled and shook his head. "Not every Death Eater is as reformed as I am. I'm sure your work has shown you that much."

"There's talk of a gene technology that could let parents pick the gender or eye color of their baby. I imagine the ability to make them a wizard could be a service high in demand." Iris shrugged and turned to Harry.

"Yes, but they are only trying to find the gene that gives magical people their ability." Harry pointed out.

Iris pursed her lips in a thoughtful manner. "The next step is controlling it. Humans want to be in control, magical or not."

"We should go check in with Dawlish. I'm sure he will want an update." Draco patted Harry on the shoulder and Iris smirked behind her hand.

Harry nodded. "Iris, do you want to come along?"

She sighed. "For it being a Friday night, I have absolutely nothing to do."

They made the short walk to the Ministry, entering through the visitor's entrance. Harry assumed that Iris would have no interest in flushing herself into a toilet.

Once the visitor's badge had been pinned to Iris's blouse, they went up the elevator to Level Two.

Dawlish was in his office, staring at his oak desk without an expression.

"Sir?" Draco knocked in the doorway. "We just came from several interviews and were hoping to debrief you."

Dawlish let out a long sigh. "The Muggle just turned up."

"Alive?" Harry allowed hope to creep into his voice.

Dawlish shook his head. "Dead."

Harry's heart sank.

"Was he killed in the same manner as the Squibs?"

"No, Unspeakable Malfoy, he was not. It doesn't appear as though the killer had any interest in experimenting on him. Instead, they applied torture techniques. They used magic on him."

Through his side vision, Harry could see Iris's head and shoulders drop down as she took in a shaky breath.

Draco turned his head to face the doorway again, crossing his arms. "We believe that the killer is experimenting on Muggles, Squibs, and Wizards to find out how magic is given or passed down to a person. Their reason why is still unclear."

"Why the geneticist?" Iris seemed to ask her question more to the room than its occupants. Still, Draco answered.

"Perhaps the killer thought he knew something. If they were unaware of Urquhart's new research, Dr. Laurent would have been the best source to go to."

A thought occurred to Harry. "We should send Aurors to guard Urquart's lab. Dr. Laurent may have given up information about who took over from him."

Dawlish nodded. "I'll have Weasley stand guard there."

"Is there anything else, sir?" Iris's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Find the killer as soon as possible." Dawlish sighed and bent over to continue his paperwork. "That is all."

Harry, Draco, and Iris turned in unison, and left the office.

"I don't know how Aurors do it, but when we get news like this in the force, we go to a pub." Iris patted Harry on the back.

Harry was overcome with gratefulness. There was no way he could focus on the case with news of this gravity. He could start up again the next day, but all of the interviews and the news of Dr. Laurent's death was too much.

With a glance at Draco, Harry nodded. "I could use an ale or two."

At Iris's insistence, Harry found himself with her and Draco in the back of a taxi their way to a Muggle pub called The Salty Dog.

**

"An ale or two" quickly became four or five ales. Harry, Draco, and Iris had a back booth all to themselves. Iris knew the pub owner quite well and he gave them preferential seating, along with a hefty discount on drinks.

Draco laughed as a peanut rolled off the table. Harry made a mental note to remind himself that the other man couldn't handle his liquor very well.

"What made you want to become an Auror?" Iris turned to Harry.

"I think I always wanted to be an Auror. I remember in school, when we had career counseling, that's what I wanted to do."

"He was inspired by Loony Moody." Draco giggled at his joke.

"Mad Eye." Harry rolled his eyes. "Don't forget that it wasn't actually Moody who turned you into a ferret."

Iris spat out her drink. "Someone named Mad Eye turned you into a ferret?" She slapped the table and started cackling.

Draco huffed and tried to take a graceful sip of his drink. "It was a traumatizing experience. I had to get rid of my pet gerbil because it reminded me too much of that day."

Having never heard this before, Harry burst into laughter. From the shock on Draco's expression, he quickly stopped. "I'm sorry, but you were a real twit back then."

"You were a fool yourself. Stupid, pratty little Gryffindor. You meddled in all the things you weren't supposed to, and then got rewarded for it."

"It sounds like someone was the teacher's pet." Iris spoke in a singsong voice.

"I wasn't the teacher's pet." Harry frowned at Draco. "Was I?"

"The biggest." Draco expanded his arms wide. "Can we get another round?"

"I'm cutting you off, Malfoy." Iris patted Draco on the shoulder.

"It's fine. I need to have a wee, anyways." He gathered himself, stood up, and walked away from the booth.

"Once he was out of earshot, Iris turned to Harry, her eyes shining. "Are you two involved?"

Harry sputtered, and finally came up with a rather weak, "What? We are—partners."

"I saw his hair this morning, and you two hold hands every chance you get. That seems pretty involved to me."

Harry sighed and finished off his ale. "I don't know what we are. I noticed that we were flirting a few weeks ago, and then we kissed, and now—"

"Now?"

Harry leaned in close to Iris. After smelling his own breath, he leaned further back. "We're shagging."

Iris's eyes grew even wider. "You don't seem too happy about that."

Harry banged his hand on the table, causing himself to jump. "Of course I'm bloody happy! I've been pining after him for weeks! I just—I don't know what that means."

"Why not?"

"Neither of us is very good at talking. Any girlfriend I ever had asked me on a date first. I don't know what I'd say. Plus, I can't tell if he wants a relationship or just someone to shag while he's between boyfriends."

"You should probably ask him." Iris patted Harry on his hand.

"I don't want to seem like I'm being clingy or whiny. You know, he frustrated me just as much as this when we were in school." He paused, and added as an afterthought, "Only I wanted to punch him in the face instead of shag him silly."

"Shag who silly?" Draco stood at the front of the booth, his hands wrapped around the end of the table.

"No one. Just a new Muggle song." Iris moved over to give Draco room, but he plopped next to Harry. The look Iris gave Harry did not go amiss.

Iris’s phone beeped. “Well, gentlemen, it looks as though I’ll leave you here to sober up. My father wants me to tell him all about working with wizards tonight.” She shook her head. “Honestly, if I didn’t know him better, I’d say he wanted to be a part of the Wizarding world.”

She stood, waved goodbye, and left to find a taxi home. Draco turned to Harry and started grinning.

Harry couldn’t help but return the grin. “What?”

As Draco spoke, his hands glided along Harry’s trousers. “Why don’t we finish what we started this morning?”

Harry stood so quickly, he nearly knocked over their glasses. “Let’s go.”

**

The moment they arrived in Harry's flat, Draco pressed a hard kiss to Harry's lips. Harry eagerly returned the kiss, allowing his hands to travel down and wrap his fingers around Draco's front hip bones. Still kissing, he led Draco to the sofa, pushing him onto the cushions. At this rate, there was no way they'd make it into the bedroom, anyway.

It seemed as though their clothes melted off, and the next thing Harry knew, he and Draco were rutting against each other.

Harry pulled away from Draco. "Are you feeling up for this still?"

Draco scoffed. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I?"

Harry shrugged. "You're just a bit more intoxicated than usual. I don't want to take advantage of you."

Draco wrapped his arms around Harry and pulled him so close, their lips were touching. Harry felt chills shoot through his body as Draco looked straight into his eyes and spoke. "Potter, I want you to fuck me so hard, I won't remember what an awful day it's been afterward. Can you do that for me?"

As everything in Harry's body tensed in arousal, Draco laughed. "I'm pretty sure that's as good an answer as I’ll get.

Harry fought a grin and scooted back on the sofa. He traced his finger down Draco's perineum and around the pucker of his arse. Harry reached for his wand on the floor and performed a Lubrication Charm on his fingers. He watched the look of satisfaction spread across Draco's face as Harry slowly pressed his finger into him.

Draco rutted and tightened against the finger as Harry kissed down his body, stopping at his cock. Harry stared at the glorious leaking erection in front of him, and licked it from the base to the tip, enjoying the taste of the precome.

He slid in another finger, pumping it in and out of Draco. Harry tried to focus on something else, eager not to come before he got a chance to fuck Draco.

Without slowing the speed or force of his fingers, Harry performed another Lubrication Charm on Draco. He pulled out his dripping fingers and wrapped them around Draco's cock. Harry positioned himself at Draco's entrance and pushed in. He watched as Draco threw his head back and moaned.

Draco felt bloody fantastic. He was so warm, so wet, so absolutely perfect. As Harry fucked Draco, he couldn't help but feel as though this was what he wanted to do for the rest of his life.

It was a strange thought, that he was smitten with someone as big of a pain in the arse as the Malfoy lying in front of him. When they met, Draco was everything Harry hated. They were polar opposites. Yet, at some point in their adulthood, they had become compatible in every way.

There was still the nagging feeling in the back of Harry's mind that Draco didn't trust him, which was why they hadn't discussed the nature of their relationship.

"Potter, if you don't start moving, I'm going to take care of myself." Draco's growl snapped Harry back to the moment.

Neither of them lasted long, especially with watching Draco come undone, his come ribboning out onto his chest. Harry cried out when he came, tears forming in his eyes as he clutched Draco like he would disappear.

They lay together, hearts pounding and shaking breaths for some time until finally, Draco spoke.

"Would you mind if I cleaned off? There isn't much worse for sensitive skin as dried semen."

Harry laughed into Draco's neck and pulled himself off of the other man. He stood up and allowed Draco to get up to go to the bathroom.

Instead of joining Draco in the shower, he performed a quick Cleansing Charm and began cleaning up the mess they had made in his living room.

As he waited for Draco to finish in the shower, Harry made a decision. He would ask Draco to stay the night. Perhaps that would be enough of an olive branch to have Draco see he wanted more than just someone to fuck.

The door opened and Draco emerged in a puff of steam. "You're out of hot water, Harry."

Harry shook his head and grinned. "Listen, Draco, I—"

"I should probably get going. It's late and you need to sleep. I imagine Dawlish will want us in bright and early to debrief everyone and make sure no one else gets killed."

Harry felt the little confidence he had disappear quicker than a feast at the Weasley house. "Right. I suppose you should go."

"Right."

Harry picked up his head and looked at Draco. His expression looked _challenging_ , as though he was waiting for something. He looked down and realized that Draco's shirt was at his feet.

"Here." Harry handed Draco the shirt. "Have a good night."

Draco pulled his shirt on, and walked out the door.

Once the door shut, Harry sighed and flopped onto his bed. He couldn't believe how foolish he was, thinking Draco actually wanted to be with him.

Harry shut off his lights with his wand, turned over, and closed his eyes. Perhaps if he pretended he could sleep, he could eventually do so.

**

At some point during the night, Harry must have fallen asleep. He awoke to someone knocking on his door. He stood up, put on his robes, and walked rather zombie-like to his door.

Once he opened it, he saw Draco standing in front of him. "We need to get to the Ministry dungeons. Now."

Draco grabbed him by his wrist and Disapparated so quickly, Harry wasn't sure if he had the time to even close his door.

"Fuck, Draco. I just woke up. It would be nice of you to give me a little warning next time." Harry rubbed his eyes, looking around at the booking room. "Why are we here?"

"Benjy just got arrested."

Harry's jaw dropped. Had he attacked Draco? Had he done something crazy out of jealousy? "For what?"

"For killing all of the Squibs and Muggles." Draco's voice was dry.

That wasn't what he expected to hear, either. "Do you believe that?"

Harry finally had a chance to look at Draco. He was a mess. He looked as though he hadn't slept at all, and his hair hadn't been combed. One of the buttons on his robes was in the wrong button hole, causing his robes to look rather lopsided.

"He betrayed me."

"How do you figure?"

"He knew that I worked in the Unspeakable department. If he managed to kill all of those people without us finding out until now, he had to have someone who would get him easy access to files."

"Draco, listen to yourself. There's no way Benjy could do something like that. He's a Seeker, not a murderer. What was the evidence tying him to the murders?"

Draco clenched his fists. "While some Aurors were reviewing some of the witness reports on the Miranda Philpotts kidnapping, they discovered that all of them had seen Benjy fleeing the scene."

Harry shook his head. "That doesn't sound like Benjy. Do you really think he’s intelligent enough to mastermind something like this? He probably was just following you around, like he had been doing _all that week_."

Acting as though he hadn't heard a word Harry said, Draco continued. "He was _also_ spotted outside my cousin's house."

"Listen to reason, Draco. Just because he was at a crime scene doesn't make him a criminal. Plus, what would be his motivation?"

Draco scoffed. "Cash. If what Grayson and Davies said was true, finding the Wizard Gene and controlling it would be worth thousands and thousands of Galleons. Benjy loves money."

Harry stomped his foot. "Dammit, Malfoy, will you just listen to me? Why is it that you always have to be right? I'm an Auror, for Merlin's sake!"

Draco glared at Harry. "Sure, you're a big-headed, self-confident, arrogant Auror."

"Why won't you trust me?" Harry grabbed Draco's wrists. Though he struggled to move away, Harry held on tight. "You're upset. You have every right to be. Someone you trusted was just arrested for a crime that we've been investigating for months. Keep your head on and think straight."

Draco pushed away Harry's hands. "This isn't about trust. This is about someone using me for information."

Harry was speechless. He wasn't sure why Draco was taking things this personally. He normally kept a cool head and waited until all of the facts were processed. Sure, he was judgmental at times, but would never suspect someone of murder with as little evidence as simply seeing someone at a crime scene.

"You know what happens when more murders happen under our watch. We arrest someone to make it look as though progress is being made. It's a sad truth, but that's what is happening here. Benjy is probably innocent."

"You know what, Potter? I'm regretting bringing you here. Why don't you make yourself useful and find out who Benjy is _actually_ working for?"

Harry's expression hardened. "Fine. If you need to arrest more innocent people, I'll be in my office trying to find the _real_ murderers."

He turned and stalked off, heading to the lift.

It was strange, that he needed to prove the innocence of Draco's ex-boyfriend. It didn't matter, though. There were more Muggles' and Squibs' lives in danger, and he wouldn't let this tiff with Draco distract him.

Though, his heart couldn't help but hurt as he turned to press the button for Level Two and caught Draco's eye. For the first time in many months, Harry stepped into the lift alone.

  
_TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK_...


	10. Episode #10: All Good Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco are closing in on those responsible for the Squib murders. The boys try to put their own tensions aside while they bring their cold cases to a climactic conclusion. In the aftermath, will they finally be able to work out their feelings for one another?

“You were right. I need you to come back to the Ministry” 

“Bugger off.” Harry blinked sleepily at the fire, just in time to see Draco turn his head in the flames.

“Now, Potter!” 

“Bloody git.” With a glare at the fire, Harry stood and pulled on his clothes. He didn’t feel the need to dress in his work clothes when it was three o’clock in the morning, and he grabbed some jeans and a green woolly jumper which Molly had given him three years prior and which he had only just grown into. He chose his scruffiest things more to annoy Draco than anything else. Idiotic, self-centred prat that he was. He squinted at the clock and groaned when his suspicions were confirmed. “Can’t a bloke get a moment’s rest around this place?”

Draco disappeared from the fire without answering, and with a yawn, Harry made his way to the Ministry, hoping Malfoy had at least had the courtesy to make him a coffee.

“You took your time.” Draco sniffed when Harry arrived in his office. Somewhere between their argument and now, he had changed and looked as well turned out as ever. It infuriated Harry more than he cared to mention. “You look like shit,” Draco finished, not helping matters.

“I don’t particular care what I look like. Why the fuck am I here at stupid o’clock in the morning?”

“I’ve spoken to Benjy. There’s not a kneazle in hells chance he did this, and we’re going to have to be the ones to prove it.” 

“You dragged me out of bed _again_ to save your boyfriend’s arse?” Harry clutched his wand and counted to ten to stop himself from hexing Malfoy’s backside across the room.

“He’s not my boyfriend, but yes.” Draco eyed Harry again, eyebrow arched. “What is that, anyway?”

“Oh.” Harry looked down at his jumper and furrowed his brow. “It’s a broomstick.”

“I see.” Draco’s lips twitched and he stepped closer to Harry. “You do know it looks like something else entirely?”

Harry gave Draco his very best glare and folded his arms because having Draco this close was really rather distracting. “Perhaps you just have cock on the brain, Malfoy.”

“Perhaps.” Draco gave Harry the kind of look which made his cheeks heat. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and reminded himself he was bloody angry, for reasons which were becoming increasingly less obvious as Draco shifted closer.

“We’re investigating a series of murders, not hosting a fashion parade. Maybe we should focus on why you’ve changed your tune about Benjy.”

“I’m well aware of what we’re doing, Potter. If we were hosting a fashion parade you are quite clearly the very last person I would have called for help.” Draco folded his arms and put more distance between them. “I knew as soon as I went to see Benjy that he didn’t do any of this. He’s hiding something, I’m damned sure of it, but he’s no killer. If you put him in Azkaban just because you’re jealous, I’ll never forgive you.”

Harry rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to throttle Malfoy. “That sounds like just the sort of thing I would do, doesn’t it? Funny how quickly you’ve forgotten that less than twenty four hours ago you were asking me for help to chuck him into Azkaban, not get him out.”

Draco made to respond, but whatever he was intending to say was lost as the door opened and Parvati hurried into the room.

“Harry, Malfoy asked me to come into the office on urgent business and…goodness, whatever are you wearing?” Parvati stopped still and wrinkled her nose.

“A green jumper with a very large cock on it apparently,” Draco muttered.

“Why on earth would you do that?” Parvati’s eyes widened and Harry gritted his teeth.

“It’s a broomstick, for fuck’s sake. What did you want to tell me?”

“Just to let you know that Benjy Williams is free for interview now. Auror Dawlish said you could go ahead and get whatever you could out of him, because he’s not getting anywhere.”

“He did, did he?” Harry looked at Draco.

“Might as well take advantage of it.”

“Right then.” Harry opened the door and gestured down the corridor. “Lead the way.”

* * *

“Just remember, play nicely.” Draco glared at Harry and pushed open the door to the holding cell.

Benjy looked as if he hadn’t slept in days, his chin dark with stubble and his eyes downcast. He looked up and eyed Harry warily.

“Potter.”

“Benjy.” Harry sat and bristled when he noted Benjy managed to muster a smile for Draco. He tried to ignore the way Draco went to Benjy’s side and murmured something which seemed to reassure him. As a hot rush of jealousy overwhelmed him, Harry had to wonder if maybe he was exactly the sort of bloke who would chuck someone in Azkaban in a fit of anger. He huffed and pointedly pulled the seat next to him out for Draco. “Who brought you in?”

“One of your lot.” Benjy shrugged and shifted in his place. “They’re saying I’m a murderer.”

“You haven’t exactly helped yourself.” Harry pulled the case file towards him and read the arresting Auror’s notes before closing it again and watching Benjy closely. “Care to explain what the hell you’ve been doing hanging around crime scenes?”

“Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?” Benjy folded his arms. “I want legal representation.”

“Is that really necessary?” Harry’s voice tightened and he matched Benjy’s stance.

“I’m not going to talk.” Benjy glared at Harry, his eyes narrowing. “Not that you lot are above using Veritaserum if the mood strikes.”

“That’s not the way I do things,” Harry replied.

“He’s right – Potter is disgustingly noble. Me, I’m _quite_ comfortable using Veritaserum to get someone to talk.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Benjy blanched and flinched back from Draco, who was sliding his wand through his fingers, a calculating smirk on his face.

“No – he wouldn’t dare.” Harry nudged Draco and gave him a look which he hoped was sufficiently disapproving. “But you’re not exactly doing yourself any favours. I don’t know who you’re protecting or what you’re hiding, but it’s only making you look like you’re guilty of something I’m pretty sure you had no involvement with.”

“So kind of you to say so.” Benjy crossed his legs and fixed his lips in a thin line, before relenting. “Do you have any idea how much witches and wizards gamble on Quidditch matches?”

“A bit more than a sickle or two, I’d say.” Draco’s arm brushed against Harry’s. “Is that what this is about?” He looked smug and gave Harry a nudge, lowering his voice. “Money – I told you it was about money. It’s _always_ about money.”

“Not for all of us.” With another glare at Draco, Harry gestured that Benjy should continue.

Benjy lowered his gaze to the table, where he had twined his hands together. “I might have been throwing a few games. Not all the time, mind, just here and there. My contact always tells me where to meet him, and I go where I’m asked. That’s how I ended up at the scene of the crimes. I didn’t ask any questions, I just took the money and got on with it.”

“Do you have any idea why he wanted you to meet him at those locations?” 

“Dunno. He was up to something, that’s for sure. Probably killing two birds with one stone, so to speak.” Benjy gestured to the door. “Am I free to go?”

“Not yet. Tell me about this bloke.” Harry looked across at Draco who was eyeing Benjy with a look of disdain and tried to focus on the job at hand, ignoring the fact that Draco’s cold demeanour gave him more pleasure than it probably should.

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll give you his name.” Benjy paused for dramatic effect. “Mundungus Fletcher.”

“I might have known.” With a growl, Harry stood and reached for Malfoy. “Come on, then.”

“Where are we going? It’s three thirty.”

“Yes – and I know just where to find Mundungus.”

With a last look at Benjy, Harry gripped onto Draco’s arm and Apparated them into the darkness.

* * *

“Harry Potter! What are you doing here at this time?” Mundungus wrapped his robe around himself and looked shiftily from side to side.

“We thought we’d make a house call.” Harry pushed past Mundungus into the small property and took a seat on the battered couch. 

“Can I offer you gentlemen a drink?” Mundungus followed Harry into the living room, while Draco looked around the room disdainfully.

“Not now.” Harry gestured to the armchair and waited for Mundungus to take a seat, noting how he appeared to be looking for some kind of escape route. “Mundungus Fletcher, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of –”

“Hang about, Harry.” Mundungus held up his hands and looked pleadingly at Harry and Draco. “I’d never kill anyone, you know that.”

“No?” Harry glared at Mundungus and tapped his wand against his knee. “Then you’d better start explaining why you’ve been asking Benjy Williams to meet you next to so many crime scenes of late.”

Draco had remained quiet since their arrival at the small cottage, and when he eventually spoke, his voice was cold and furious.

“You might also want to explain why you have a Malfoy signet ring on your left hand. I know that nobody in my family would have willingly gifted you with such a thing.”

Harry watched as Mundungus clenched his hand into a fist before toying nervously with the ring.

“It’s just a silly trinket, Malfoy.”

“ _Not_ to _me_.” 

“Come on, then.” Harry gestured that Mundungus should begin speaking and made to stand when he was met with silence. “Okay, I’ve had it – I’m taking you in for questioning.”

“There’s really no need – I’ll talk.” Mundungus looked across at Draco, his expression bellying his nerves. “It’s just a bit of business on the side. Muggles who want to buy magical items, there’s nothing illegal about borrowing property from someone who has no use for it anymore.”

“The Wizarding Theft Act 1863 begs to differ.” Draco glared at Mundungus. “Grave-robbing is no more legal than an Unforgivable.”

“Not to mention you’re in violation of the International Statute of Secrecy.” Harry snorted and matched Draco’s glare. “Why is it always you?”

“I’m just lucky.” Mundungus let out a short bark of laughter which was quickly silenced by the expression on Draco’s face.

“I’m taking you in to the Ministry.” Harry stood and gestured that Draco should help, watching as he hauled Mundungus up to a standing position. “You’re under arrest.”

Mundungus sneered at Harry and his face twisted into an unpleasant grimace. “You’ll regret this, Potter. You might want to look a bit closer to home – who do you think tips me off about these things in the first place?”

“One of the Aurors?” Harry tried to keep his expression smooth, but he saw a flicker of surprise cross Draco’s features.

“Yes, one of the Aurors. Bloody Ministry.” Mundungus turned to face Draco, his expression gleeful. “And _you_ , Mister Malfoy…I know all about your family. All about them. Rotten to the core, each and every one and you’re no different. Not afraid to kill, you Malfoys. Take pleasure in it, don’t they? Do you like watching someone bleed dry? Your father used to enjoy that game.”

“Take him.” Draco’s voice was tight and he pushed Mundungus towards Harry, his eyes dark and his face expressionless. “ _Take him_.”

Harry gripped Mundungus’s arm and nodded once to Draco, before Apparating them back to the Ministry.

* * *

“I’m sorry about Fletcher.” Harry perched on the end of Draco’s desk and watched, as he moved paperweights gloomily around his desk with a flick of his wand.

“Why?” Draco placed his wand down. “The Malfoy family name is hardly what it used to be. I know very well what kind of things my father used to do and the causes he supported.” 

“People can change.”

“Perhaps.” Draco pushed a file across to Harry and he saw the name etched across the front. 

_Sarah Longbottom._

“You’re still thinking about this?”

“Difficult not to, when you’ve been inside her head for a while.” Draco frowned and drummed his fingers on the desk. “There’s Malfoy money behind the Muggle Born Registration Commission. I did some more digging after we visited Umbridge.”

“It might not have been your father.” Harry swallowed as he watched Draco start moving the paperweights again, his expression blank.

“Who else? Helena was no better than a Squib herself by all accounts, and given the state we found Septimus and Aurelia in, I hardly think this was their doing. This has my father written all over it.” 

“Perhaps he didn’t know what Umbridge was doing?”

Draco’s hand trembled and he placed his wand down carefully, clenching his hands together. 

“Father would have known exactly what Umbridge was doing. Sending Dementors to administer the Kiss to innocent victims – to _children_. I went through the files from Umbridge’s time at the Ministry. They were sending Dementors to eradicate the world of Squibs and Mudbloods, just like she said, and Father was in it up to his elbows.” 

“I’m sorry.” Harry knew it was a weak response, but he didn’t know what else to say. He couldn’t defend Lucius Malfoy, largely because he suspected Draco’s summary was correct. He reached over to squeeze Draco’s hand. “Why don’t I get us a drink? We can sit up for a bit and try to sort things out.”

“Why not?” Draco focused on their hands twined together and didn’t meet Harry’s eyes. “I’ll just have a tea.”

Harry made his way swiftly to the canteen, Malfoy’s words swimming around in his head. He felt that they were so close to cracking the case and he knew that somehow the trail which kept leading them back to Squibs was the key. While he waited for the drinks he tried to recollect the details from the files of Jacob Wilfing and Opal Leach, as well as the marks observed on the victims Iris had found. 

“Draco? I’ve been thinking about Opal Leach…”

But when Harry opened the door to Draco’s office, there was nobody there. 

He placed the cups down and looked at the note on the desk, sitting heavily.

_Potter_

_I’ve decided to call it a night. I might be in a little late tomorrow, feel free to do what you need and I’ll join you as soon as I can._

_Draco._

When Harry finished reading the note, all thoughts of the crimes left his mind. This time when he closed his eyes, Harry’s mind filled only with Draco.

* * *

After leaving the Ministry Harry fell into bed in his jumper and jeans, only just remembering to kick off his shoes before he settled into a deep sleep. When he heard a persistent banging at his door and saw it was five o’clock in the morning, he groaned and pulled his pillow over his head.

“Potter!”

Harry groaned again and yanked the duvet almost off the bed. He opened the door with a glare, and stepped back to let Draco stumble into the house.

“You’re drunk.”

“Don’t be such a bore.” Draco pulled Harry into his arms and covered his face in messy, Firewhisky kisses.

“I thought you were going home.” 

“Decided to try the Golden Hinde, take my mind off things a bit.”

Fury coiled in Harry’s stomach and he stepped back, clenching his fists at his side.

“You went _where_?”

“The Golden Hinde, to have a drink and a dance.” Draco veered alarmingly towards Harry who kept him at arm’s length. “I wanted to take my mind off the fact my father is such a bastard.”

“And you thought that fucking a stranger was the perfect way to do that, I suppose?” Harry’s eyes stung and he blinked them hard. He wanted to punch Draco to stop him from smiling like that, as if everything was alright. In the end he punched the wall instead.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?”

“Breaking my fucking hand, apparently. _Godric_ that hurts.” Harry clutched his hand with a wince and Draco stumbled closer.

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“Because I’m _angry_ , Malfoy – you don’t just go off to some club and hang off the arm of anyone that’s available, while I’m sitting in your office watching your cup of tea going cold.”

“It doesn’t matter, I didn’t want to hang off the arm of anyone.” Draco sobered and moved closer to Harry. “Apart from you, I mean. Obviously.”

Harry looked up to see Draco watching him carefully and he slowly unfurled his hand with a wince. “It’s five o’clock in the morning. I’m knackered and you’re drunk. Just come to bed and try not to hog all the duvet. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

“You might want to get that hand seen to,” Draco provided, helpfully, as he followed Harry upstairs.

“Do you think?” With a growl of irritation, Harry pulled off his jumper and jeans and got back into bed.

He shut his eyes tightly and within moments, he felt the heat of Draco’s body pressed against his back. It was typical that after finally managing to get Draco in his bed, he was half-pissed and snoring as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Harry lay awake for longer than he should, and listened to Draco sleep.

* * *

“Salazaar, I’m never drinking again.”

Harry woke up to the sound of Draco moaning, and not in the kind of way he enjoyed.

“Well it’s your own fault. We’ll get you a strong coffee and a pain au chocolat on your way into work. That should do the trick.” Harry turned and faced Draco, propping himself on his elbow. “You said last night that you’re not interested in anyone else. Apart from me. Apparently.”

“Did I?” Draco feigned innocence. “I also sang _Weasley is Our King_ a few times before people started throwing glacier cherries.”

Harry harrumphed and glared at Draco. “A bit easier to admit to things after a few whiskies, I imagine.”

“Possibly.” Draco raised his hand and ran it through Harry’s hair, watching him carefully. “How’s your hand?”

“Not too bad – nothing broken, that’s for sure.” Harry clenched and unclenched his fist again and shrugged. “I’ll live.” He leaned into Draco’s hand on his hair and shifted closer. Draco’s body was warm and firm and Harry wished they could snog under the duvets together for the rest of the day.

“We should probably get to work.” Draco grimaced, as if the idea displeased him.

“I suppose.” Harry rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling. “I was thinking about Opal Leach last night.”

“Oh?”

“I think we’ve missed something, there. I want to go and have another look at her flat.”

“Now?” Draco wrinkled his nose.

“No – first we speak to Mundungus again. We’ve got to try to get to the bottom of who we can and can’t trust with this case. There’s obviously something going on inside the Ministry, and I can’t help feeling Mundungus knows more than he let on” With a sigh, Harry threw back the duvet and began pulling his clothes from the wardrobe. “You take the first shower. I think you need it more than me.”

Draco hesitated, opening his mouth to say something, and then he stopped. With a nod, he got out of bed and left the room.

* * *

“How was your night in the cells?” Draco’s seat scraped and he sat down. His hair was still damp from his shower, and Harry tried his damnedest to focus on the task at hand, instead of the way Malfoy smelled like his favourite shampoo.

“Bloody awful.” Mundungus looked harangued and glared at Harry. “I’d expect this from a Malfoy, but not from you.”

“You’re hardly here without due cause.” Harry tapped his quill on the parchment he had laid out to make notes. “You mentioned that you had been getting tips from people inside the Ministry?”

“I’m not sure when I mentioned that. You must have been hearing things.”

“You know damn well what you told us.” Draco folded his arms. “We can use the Veritaserum if necessary.”

“Stop bloody saying things like that.” Harry nudged Draco again and was met with an innocent smile.

“Wouldn’t put it past you,” Mundungus muttered. “If I give you a name do I get to leave?”

“I don’t think so – we’re not just letting you get away with this without trial – but I think the Wizengemot will view things a bit more favourably if you cooperate.”

“Fine.” Mundungus shifted in his seat and sighed. “Savage. He’s the one you want. He told me when they had news of something and kept people away for long enough so I could get what I needed. Just trinkets, mostly.”

“And the Malfoy ring?” 

“From Chrysos Hall,” Mundungus replied.

“Did you loot things there?” Harry wondered what Draco was thinking as he saw him shiver.

“Nope. Not a jot. I went to the Hall thinking there’d be all sorts, but I heard someone else rooting around. I managed to take a couple of things but I left pretty sharpish. It’s a miserable place – full of death and Dark magic.”

“Sounds familiar,” Draco muttered.

“You didn’t have time to take anything?” Harry watched Mundungus closely.

“’Course not – I was in and out quickly like I said.”

“Of course you were.” Harry rolled his eyes and glanced at Draco, who looked equally unconvinced.  
“Do you know who was at the property?”

“Couldn’t say – it was dark.”

“What sort of build was he?” 

“I never said it was a bloke. I know that much.” Mundungus looked pleased with himself and Harry met Draco’s gaze. He knew they were both thinking about Penbrooke and the interview which had implied a woman might have been involved in the crimes.

“You said you took things from the properties before the rest of the Aurors got to the scene.” Draco frowned at Mundungus and spoke with disdain. “You did a thorough job on the Leach property. Why did that get special treatment?”

“Leach?” Mundungus shook his head and looked pleadingly at Harry. “Nothing to do with me. I didn’t have time to get to her before the Ministry was crawling all over the house. She was a good lass in any event. I wouldn’t steal from her.”

“No, just the other victims of murder. How honourable.” Harry sighed, pressing his quill to the parchment. “Right, then. You can give us a list. I want every victim, every item and everything else you can tell us about the scene of the crime.”

And with that, Mundungus Fletcher began to talk.

* * *

“I know who sent this.” Harry reached into his robes and pulled out the note he had been given which alerted him to Helena’s case.

“Who?” Draco perused the writing for a moment and then looked up with a flicker of recognition. Savage. It’s his writing.”

“Yes, it’s his writing.” Harry sat down opposite Draco, raking a hand through his hair. “I spoke to Dawlish after the interview with Mundungus. It looks as though this little racket of his might have been going on for some time. I reckon Savage knew I was going to be working with you and they wanted to distract us from looking too closely into things going missing from crime scenes.”

“Pointing you towards a file with the Malfoy name on it would have been a sure fire way to keep our attention elsewhere,” Draco agreed.

“Funny they chose that file of all the things they could have picked.”

“All the files on the Malfoy family, you mean?” Draco bristled noticeably and Harry shook his head.

“No, just…” He paused and then steadied himself, keeping his voice level as he contemplated Draco. “I think she’s mixed up in all of this – Helena, I mean.”

Instead of responding with protestations and anger, Draco looked deflated and sat back in his chair, giving Harry a curt nod. “I’m inclined to agree.”

“Darjeeling?” Harry gave Draco a sheepish grin and reached out to squeeze his hand. “Tea makes everything better, Molly always says.”

“I’d thank you not to give me advice from a Weasley.” Draco shook his head and winced. “I’d prefer a Bloody Mary. My head is killing me.”

“I might have something along those lines.” Harry flicked his wand with a muttered _Accio_ and a lurid pink bottle flew into the palm of his hand. He shut the door and grabbed two glasses, putting the bottle down on the desk. “It’s strawberry schnapps. George Weasley sent it to me for my birthday.”

“It looks vile.” Draco eyed the bottle with trepidation. He poured the clear liquid into two glasses and giving it a tentative sniff before downing one of the drinks with a grimace. “It _is_ vile. I think I’ll stick with Darjeeling.”

“It’s not so bad.” Harry sipped the schnapps, rather enjoying the sweet, sticky liquor. “Although it’s probably not the thing for this time in the morning. I’ll ask Parvati if she’s able to grab us a couple of hot drinks.”

“You’re such a child sometimes, Potter.” The look Draco gave Harry was almost fond, and he felt his cheeks heating under Draco’s gaze as the mood in the room shifted.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Hm?” Draco arched an eyebrow and his lips twitched into a smile.

“Distracting me,” Harry clarified.

“We couldn’t have that.” Draco looked pointedly at the chair Harry was sitting on and a rush of memories of Draco writhing in his lap made his cock twitch with appreciation. He shifted in place with a growl and tapped the open papers.

“We’ve got to work.”

Draco relented, opening one of the files and pouring over the writing, squinting a little in the dim light. “Opal Leach…there’s something we’ve missed there, I’m sure of it. The place was ransacked and that idiot Fletcher doesn’t seem to have had anything to do with it.”

“It’s time to go and take a look?”

“Yes.” Draco frowned. “I think we should.”

* * *

“Look at this.” Draco gestured for Harry to come closer as he cast a _Lumos_ to give light to the dark living room. The room was just as it had been when the Aurors found out Opal Leach had been abducted. The crime scene was still perfectly preserved, while the Aurors tried to get to the bottom of the case.

“What is it?”

“Papers – notes she made about Squibs and their position in society. It looks like a thesis of sorts, although I don’t know how far she got with it. A lot of pages seem to have been removed from the document. It doesn’t make much sense.”

“There’s a file like that over here.” Harry held out the empty file to Draco who studied the cover. “It’s labelled ‘Missing Squibs’ – she was campaigning about their cases getting overlooked by the Ministry because of the magical status of a Squib. She must have collected a lot of information, but the rest of the file is empty.”

“Do you think Opal discovered something she was never meant to find?” Draco looked up at Harry with a frown and he nodded, as a chill in the air caused him to shiver.

“I’m certain of it.”

* * *

“Have you found anything?” Draco plucked the file Harry had been pouring over from his hands.

“Nothing much.” Harry rubbed his eyes with a sigh. “Dawlish has been with Savage all afternoon, but he reckons there’s no new information on the killings. He wasn’t involved in the deaths, we’re sure of that much. I told Dawlish we had been back to Opal’s flat and taken some of the papers. After all of this, he seems prepared to let us run with it.”

“Well that’s something.” Draco pondered over the files and then looked at Harry. “I just don’t understand how Helena is tangled up in all of this.”

“Neither do I, but I think the link which pulls everything together is magic – or lack of it.” Harry rubbed his chin, speaking urgently. “Think about it – Helena believes she lost her magic, and at the same time there are geneticists working on trying to find a magic gene. Then Opal Leach goes missing after she begins to investigate Squib disappearances. The bodies which Iris alerted us to all have connections to the Wizarding world and they all appear to have been experimented on. It’s all tied together. I reckon Opal Leach found out that Squibs were being experimented on, although Merlin knows for what purpose.”

Draco shuddered at the thought of the experiments and nodded slowly. “We have to remember that Helena is, to all intents and purposes, a Squib herself. I’m not sure whether she has the agency to do any of this and she hardly strikes me as the mad scientist type.”

“Perhaps she was lying about not being able to do magic?” Harry offered.

“I think if she could still use magic she would have done so, more than once. I expect she would have done a better job of hiding herself too.”

“It just doesn’t make any sense.” Harry groaned and banged his head on the table. After a moment he looked up at Draco again. “I wonder if we need to speak to the scientists again? If people are doing experiments on Squibs and then Dr. Lautner is tortured for information, there must be a link between their research and the crimes. If we have a motive – a purpose – then we could maybe find who’s responsible.”

“I never liked that Roger Davies chap. Although he’s always had the opportunity to conduct experiments as he wished, claiming it was part of his job. I’m not sure why he would end up resorting to murder.”

“Perhaps he wasn’t working alone.” Harry furrowed his brow and thought back to the interview with Roger. “He talks about wizarding genetics as if he’s almost fanatical about finding a gene – the greatest intellectual challenge he’s ever attempted and all that rot, even though his boss seemed pretty clear that he’s not going to find something like that. Maybe he got desperate. You asked him yourself if he would consider killing for it.”

“I’m very astute.” Draco settled back in his chair, a smug look on his face. “Perhaps I had this case solved from the very beginning. I hate to bring this back to money, but Davies isn’t exactly an old Pureblood name, and scientists don’t get paid much considering the hours of work they do.”

“Davies might not be an old name, but Malfoy certainly is. Besides, even if Helena isn’t involved, we know from interviewing Dung that there are Muggles out there prepared to pay a fortune for magical trinkets. Who knows how much a Muggle would pay for _magic_.”

“A small fortune, I imagine.” Draco tapped his finger to his lips thoughtfully. “Not to mention the prestige for Davies if he made that kind of unprecedented breakthrough.”

“I think we need to ask Helena to help us with our enquiries. I’m still certain she’s the link.”

“Let’s bring in Davies again too,” Draco agreed. “When should we speak to cousin dearest?”

Harry closed up the files and stood, stretching. “In the morning.”

“Right. Well, see you tomorrow.” Draco made a pretence of clearing up the desk they had been sitting at and Harry paused by the door.

“We could have a quick pint first, if you’re game?”

Draco hesitated and then chuckled, winking at Harry. “The Golden Hinde?”

Harry grinned and nodded. “Where else?”

* * *

Roger’s demeanour had changed since Harry and Draco had last seen him. Gone was the arrogant, boastful confidence and instead he seemed twitchy and nervous. Draco’s elbow poked into Harry’s side, telling Harry that Draco saw exactly what Harry did – a man who was guilty of something.

Roger’s eyes flicked from Harry to Draco and back again. When he laughed, it sounded forced. “Harry, why am I here?”

“We want you to help us with the Squibs murders we’ve been investigating.” Harry noticed Roger visibly pale and resisted the urge to pump his fist into the air in satisfaction.

“It’s probably worth mentioning at this juncture that cooperation will be viewed favourably when the Wizengamot decide on the length of any Azkaban sentence.” Draco’s cool tone made Roger flinch and he looked wildly at Harry at the mention of Azkaban.

“I can’t go to that place – people lose their minds there. Don’t you understand? I can’t be sent to prison – I have so much left to do.”

“No?” Harry pressed his quill to his parchment. “If you want to stand any chance of avoiding it, you’re going to have to talk.”

Roger looked harried and pressed his lips together in a tight line. “I never intended to kill anyone, you have to believe me. Everything I did, I did for the good of our society.” He looked animated and leaned forward in his seat, his eyes gleaming. “Just imagine the possibilities, if a magical gene could be found. Squibs could be cured of their disease and the brightest and the best Muggles could be allowed to join us in our world.” 

“I beg to differ. Purebloods have been using genetics to argue some have an entitlement to magic because of their lineage which is somehow superior to the magic of Muggle borns and half-bloods. I imagine it hasn’t been so long since the war that you’ve forgotten the most vocal champion of that kind of argument?” Draco arched his eyebrow at Roger, who flinched.

“What I do is nothing like You Know Who. I’m a scientist – a brilliant one at that. I simply want to help our society gain a better understanding of magic. One day, all disease will be eradicated as a result of my work.”

“Disease?” Harry frowned as Roger repeated the word for the second time. “You believe Squibs have a disease?”

“Clearly.” Roger looked confident again and waved his hand airily as if he was talking about the weather. “At some stage we have to use real patients to assess the utility of the cures we discover through our work.” 

“ _Not_ without first being assured that the so-called cures won’t threaten lives, and certainly not on unwilling victims.” Harry gritted his teeth. “Are you aware of the things you have done in your quest for brilliance?”

“I have tried to help.” Roger’s mouth set in a firm line. “The reactions to the introduction of the magically refined blood into the Squibs has been unfortunate, but we are so close. So _close_.” Roger’s eyes gleamed again and bile rose in Harry’s throat. He was relieved when Draco spoke up, because he wasn’t quite sure he could manage to do so himself.

“You introduced some kind of refined magical blood into the systems of the Squibs in order to try to trigger any kind of latent magic, I assume?” Draco snorted and scribbled quickly on his parchment, pushing it across to Harry.

_That explains the puncture wounds on the bodies._

“Yes.” Roger’s brow furrowed. “The first few attempts resulted in acute organ failure almost instantly, but with time the impact became less, although not flawless – not yet.”

“Far from flawless.” Harry shook his head and stared at Roger. “Innocent people died during your experiments. Were they conscious?”

“Of course not.” Roger looked horrified at the thought. “The pain would have been intense. We - _I_ \- simply placed them into a magical coma and kept them fed and watered with various nourishing potions. They wouldn’t have felt a thing. I didn’t enjoy experimenting on Squibs. I was fortunate enough to have access to DNA samples as part of my work, and I used that for the most part.”

“Otherwise the death toll would have been higher?” Draco grimaced.

“What happened to Jacob Wilfing and Opal Leach?” Harry watched Roger carefully for his reaction and noticed a flicker of emotion cross his features before his face smoothed.

“Wilfing tried to escape and it seems he was unlucky. I had no involvement in his death or the death of Opal Leach. I am a scientist, not a cold-blooded killer.”

“Yes, I’m sure you can convince yourself of that.” Draco nudged Harry. “Are we done?”

“Yes, nearly.” Harry rose to his feet and gathered his papers. “Do you know Helena Malfoy?”

“Malfoy?” Roger looked startled and glanced at Draco. “I don’t know who you’re on about.”

With a nod, Harry closed the door behind them. “Well, what do you think?”

Draco frowned at the closed door. “I think he knows exactly who Helena is.”

* * *

Helena Malfoy looked around the small interview room with displeasure. She was as well turned out as ever, with an expensive string of pearls looped around her neck and her hair pulled back into a neat bun.

“I don’t really understand why I’m here.” Helena sniffed and examined her nails. “You can’t have any evidence against me and I have already been acquitted of the crime you tried to convict me for.”

“The crime you confessed to committing.” Harry clenched his hands and Helena let out a peal of laughter.

“That doesn’t sound like something I would have done.”

“We’re not here to talk about that.” Harry gritted his teeth and counted to ten before moving on. “We have a witness placing you at a crime scene.” Harry elaborated a little on the information they had gleaned from Mundungus and he tapped his fingers on the table. “I want you to tell us again about the night in Muggle London.”

“I have told you all you need to know.”

“Did you take anything when you went out?” Draco’s expression was unreadable and Harry wondered where the line of questioning was intended to lead.

“A little something – given to me by one of the Muggles I had decided to spend the evening with.” Helena sounded bored and raised her eyes to the ceiling.

“I see.” Draco scribbled something on a piece of paper and pushed it to Harry.

_I think the Muggle drugs suppressed her magic._

Harry crumpled up the paper, pushing it into his pocket when he saw Helena watching him curiously.

“We know you didn’t leave the country to be schooled abroad.” Harry took a punt which was a reasonable one, given Shandy’s insistence his mistress had never left Chrysos Hall, and the fact Helena enunciated he words as if she had never spent more than a few weeks overseas. “What were you doing between then and the death of your parents?”

“My, my, Auror Potter.” Helena smiled and shook her head. “You _have_ been doing your detective work.”

“It’s his job and he’s bloody good at it. Just answer the question,” Draco snapped.

“I suppose you would understand more than most, what a family like ours would do to a child that lost their magic.” Helena’s smile took on a cold edge and she flicked her gaze to Draco. “My parents knew all about the poor, dead, Muggle boy. They believed my association with Muggles had led to my losing my magic, and they kept me locked away in the house for years to help me get it back. They pretended I had gone missing while their private Healers tried to _heal_ me.”

“But you can’t just _lose_ magic.” Harry banged his fist on the table and Draco reached across to brush his fingers lightly against his hand.

“Certain families might disagree. They would view magic as something different to you.” Draco’s voice tightened. “How did they attempt to heal you?” 

“Oh, it’s quite simple. They tie you down, you see. Then they use magic – shocks of magic which burn through your veins – in the hope they will fix whatever failing has caused an otherwise healthy witch to become so _abnormal._ ”

“I’ve heard of it. It’s a form of therapy.” Draco winced and looked at Harry, his face pale. “Pureblood families used it in the past to try to eradicate homosexuality.”

“That’s barbaric.” Harry shuddered at the thought, his heart constricting. “How many years were you kept in the Manor?”

“Until the night my parents died during the second war. Around seventeen years,” Helena responded, coolly.

“And your parents were killed by Dementors?”

“Yes.” Helena fixed her gaze on Draco and spoke softly. “My parents were asked to fund the committee established by Dolores Umbridge. With such a _generous_ Malfoy benefactor already funding the committee, it was assumed that my parents too would offer their support. In support of me, they did not. That night the Dementors came. I hid and watched every moment. Do you have any idea what it is like to watch somebody you love receive the Kiss? Do you have _any_ idea?”

“I might have some.” Harry thought of Sirius and tried to process everything Helena had told him. He noticed Draco’s face had paled and decided to go with his hunch. “We have Roger Davies in the other interview room. He told us everything.”

Helena sneered and settled back in her seat, her anger clear. “Stupid, arrogant fool.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed and he began to take notes. “When did you meet Roger?” 

“He was so very young. Just twenty one years of age.” Helena paused and looked away, reminiscing. “I sometimes take the time to go to Diagon Alley and just sit – watching the world and all of its magic walk by. Roger joined me once, and he began to talk about his research. He was proud and boastful, rather convinced that he was going to change the world.”

“That sounds about right,” Draco muttered.

“You set up a facility together?” Harry thought back to the experiments Roger had talked about, knowing full well he must have had a private space to carry out the tests. He just hoped Helena would be forthcoming with the details of where the facility was located.

“We had a laboratory on some unused private land which has been in the Malfoy family for generations. We protected it with the usual charms so to the untrained eye it appears to be nothing more than a dilapidated cottage.”

Harry thought about Wilfing – or a shadow of him – looking around barren land, trying to find a way to go to seek out freedom, flinching away under the light of the sun after so long in a small laboratory filled with horrors. A rustle of paper pulled him from his dark thoughts and he noticed Draco had pushed another scribbled note across the table.

_If it’s Malfoy land, I know where it will be. We can notify Dawlish once we finish here._

Harry’s heart lightened as he noticed with a small smile that Draco had been doodling lightning bolts in the margins. He shook his head to clear his mind of the images which now seemed imprinted there, focusing as best he could on the task at hand.

“What was your incentive?” Draco looked hopeful and Harry wondered if he was hoping Helena would give him some sort of reason which might help him understand how she could do these things.

“I wanted to get my magic back and I was sure Roger could help me do so.” Helena smiled at Draco. “I used a little Malfoy charm - _you_ would know all about that, cousin.”

Harry noticed how Draco’s lips pursed and his face whitened and he spoke gruffly to divert Helena’s attention from Draco.

“And Penbrooke? I assume he helped to fund the endeavour.”

“Goodness, no. I had plenty of Muggles who were prepared to offer funding in the hope of one day, being able to do magic.”

“Then what use was he to you?”

Helena smiled in response. 

“He was prepared to get his hands dirty when one of our Squibs escaped, and he took care of the nosy little activist who began to ask too many questions. Roger never much enjoyed that side of things. I do believe he had to force himself to think of the Squibs as nothing more than the rats he would experiment on day to day.”

“Why would you do all of this?” Draco’s voice was tight and he had clenched his hands together tightly to stop himself from launching forwards or reaching for his wand.

“I simply wanted to get my magic back.” Helena laughed and the sound made Harry flinch. “Of course, there came a time when I simply started to enjoy watching people die. It was such a _rush_. There’s power in it, more than I can ever describe.”

Draco looked disgusted. “That’s it, then. Case closed.”

When Harry followed Draco from the room, he could still hear Helena laughing as the door closed behind them.

* * *

Sometime later, Harry and Draco found themselves bowed over their files, writing up a report on their case for Dawlish.

“What made you make the connection between Muggle drugs and Helena’s magic?”

“It happened to Blaise once. It’s what made me think of it.” Draco looked up and dropped his quill down on his parchment. “He told me about a big night out when he experimented with this and that. Afterwards, he couldn’t do magic at all for about twenty four hours. It spooked him sufficiently to tell me all the gory details shortly after he was able to cast basic spells again and it put him off that kind of thing once and for all. It doesn’t explain why she still can’t do magic, however.”

“I think I know why,” Harry offered.

“Oh?” Draco looked intrigued.

“Dumbledore told me once about Merope Gaunt – Riddle’s mum. She suffered mental and physical abuse and her family thought she was a Squib. Because of the abuse, her magical abilities were suppressed and when she was in a new environment, she was perfectly capable of performing magic. Neville didn’t have the same kind of home life as Merope, but he also struggled with his magic when he was around his grandmother, because he was so terrified of her.”

Draco listened carefully and nodded his understanding. “You think the magic her parents used on Helena caused her magic to be suppressed for a prolonged period?”

“In essence, yes.” Harry nodded and his brow furrowed. “I’m not sure how it continued once her parents died however. That doesn’t fit with Merope’s story.”

“I disagree.” Draco shook his head. “I think if magic can be suppressed in the way you describe, then it’s entirely possible Helena’s inability to do magic is psychosomatic.”

“I’m not sure I follow.” Harry rubbed his forehead.

“It’s simple,” Draco continued, eagerly. “Helena is unlikely to ever forget the night of her parents’ murder and she likely blames herself for their death. That coupled with the belief she has lost her magic and reliving her experiences with the Healers long into adulthood, has kept her magic weak.”

“If someone could have told her that, all of these deaths might have been avoided.” Harry frowned and flipped through the files on the desk. 

“And if Davies hadn’t been so pig-headed about finding something he was never going to find, I doubt he would ever have become involved with something like this.” Draco looked tired. “It’s all so bloody senseless.”

“Murder usually is.” Harry gathered together his papers and arranged them into a neat pile. “I’m sure Helena is going to Azkaban, Roger and Penbrooke too.”

“Good riddance. Did Helena reveal the names of her Muggle investors to Dawlish?”

“Yep. I’ve given them to Iris. I only spoke to her briefly, but she thinks she’s going to be able to charge them with something Muggle. It’s going to get her a promotion, she reckons.”

“Good news.” Draco seemed quiet and after signing his report with a final flourish of ink, he gathered his files under his arm, before holding out his hand for Harry to shake. “It’s not been all bad working with you, Potter.”

“No, not all bad.” Harry gripped Draco’s hand and shook it firmly. “What have you got planned next?”

“I think I might get back to some of my research. I’m bored of spending time with petty thieves and murderers.” Draco brushed his hand over his robes. “Although I suppose it was fun while it lasted.”

“Are we still on about the case?” Harry’s brow furrowed and Draco nodded, smoothly.

“If you like.”

Harry watched with confusion as Draco tidied up his things. Before he could stop him, Draco had swept out of the room and when Harry tried to follow him, Malfoy was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

“What happened with you and Malfoy? I thought you were love’s young dream.” Ron snorted into his pint and settled back in his seat. “Dawlish said he was going to bring you back to the team to replace Savage. Good to have you back, mate.”

“Good to be back.” Harry shrugged in response to Ron’s query. “I don’t know about Malfoy. I haven’t seen him in over a week. He was supposed to be back in the office, but I think he’s been avoiding me.”

“Why would he do that?” 

“Because he’s a prat.” Harry grabbed his coat and gestured to the Floo. “I’m off. I’m going to try and find him.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Harry chuckled. “I’ll need it.”

* * *

When Harry got into the Golden Hinde, he quickly spotted Draco sitting at the bar, looking morose and clutching a copy of the _Prophet_.

**THE WORST FAMILY IN WIZARDING BRITAIN?**

A picture of Helena Malfoy in Azkaban adorned the front page, and below it pictures of Lucius Malfoy during the war accompanied another vitriolic article by Rita Skeeter.

“I’m sorry.” Harry squeezed Draco’s hand and was relieved when he didn’t pull away.

“I have decided to have a discussion with Father – I’m not particularly looking forward to it.” Draco winced and turned to face Harry. “What brings you here? I suppose you’re looking for a bit of fun.”

“Not really. I was actually looking for you.” Harry grinned and his cheeks heated when he realised how that might sound. “Not that you’re not any fun.”

“Wonderful. Thanks, Potter.” Draco turned back to the paper. “You’re back with the rest of the Auror team I heard. You and Weasley must be happy about that.”

“It’s alright.” Harry shifted his stool closer to Draco. “I was actually thinking about asking Shacklebolt if he had anything we could work on together, if you’d be interested. I think we make a good team. On and off duty.”

“You do?” Draco finally looked at Harry again. “I’m not sure I fancy arresting more family members.”

“We’ll find something else to do.” Harry brushed a strand of Draco’s hair from his face. “I’ve got a few ideas for starters.”

“Is that so?” Draco’s breath ghosted over Harry’s lips and he chuckled. “Care to share these ideas of yours?”

“Perhaps.” Harry captured Draco’s lips in a heated kiss and pulled back when they were both breathless. “In private, though – I’m not inclined to share.”

“No. Neither am I, it seems.” Draco moved from the bar stool and held his hand out to Harry. “Fancy a dance?”

“Alright.” Harry grinned. “That’ll do for starters.”

* * *

Harry groaned when he woke to feel Draco pressing rather insistently against his backside.

“Morning, Malfoy.”

“You’re awake, then?” Draco’s voice dipped into a self-satisfied purr and he ran his hand over Harry’s chest and down to the waistband of his underpants. “Good – I like a willing participant.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.” Harry chuckled, breathlessly and let Draco push down his pants, kicking them off. He wasn’t sure when Malfoy had undressed himself, but as every line of Draco’s body flexed and arched against his bare skin, Harry could tell without turning around that Draco had divested himself of his clothes at some stage. Not that he had any complaints about _that_.

“We should go to work soon.” Draco lazily stroked Harry to full hardness and continued to press against his backside. “Don’t you think?”

“Bit difficult to work when my cock feels like this.” Harry laughed, deep and rough-edged and ground a little shamelessly back against Malfoy’s cock.

“It must have been hell for you these last few weeks, then.” 

“Bugger off.” Harry grinned at the teasing note to Malfoy’s voice and rolled over onto his front, stretching his arms out above his head and enjoying the release in his aching muscles. “Is this your way of begging forgiveness for being a prat and buggering off as soon as our case closed?”

“It might be.” Draco hummed thoughtfully and pressed hot kisses along Harry’s neck, down to the base of his spine. “I’m not saying sorry, though.”

“Merlin forbid.” Harry rocked against the mattress as he heard Draco whisper the now familiar spell. He sucked in a breath when Draco’s fingers trailed into his crease and shifted his legs a little wider apart.

“You’re eager this morning.” Draco pressed his lips to Harry’s ear and worked a slick finger inside him. “Very nice.”

“And you’re a filthy bastard.” Harry groaned again as Draco pumped two fingers hard inside him in response. He pressed back to Draco and rocked into the bed. “I’ve been wondering when you were going to fuck me since I saw you giving Williams a good seeing to.”

“Please don’t mention that cretin when we’re fucking.” Draco slipped another finger alongside the second and bit down on Harry’s neck. “I can’t say I’ve given much thought to the whole thing.” Draco thrust his fingers again and rubbed them in a way which made Harry practically claw at the sheets. “Well, maybe just a little.”

“Get on with it, then.” 

“Shift up.” Draco slipped his fingers from Harry and pulled him up onto all fours, his hand caressing Harry’s arse. “I’m not sure I’m ready just yet…”

“No?” Harry held his breath and released it with a rush when Draco worked his fingers back inside him. He clutched at the sheets and rocked back towards Draco, not really caring about how he must look anymore as Draco’s touch sent sparks of pleasure through him.

“I love watching you like this.” With a low growl, Draco finally slipped his fingers from inside Harry and aligned his slick cock with Harry’s hole. With one rough motion he pressed into Harry, almost knocking him back down onto the bed.

“ _Fuck._ ” Harry’s voice cracked and he clutched the sheets more tightly, the burn of Draco buried deep inside him causing him a little discomfort. After giving him a moment to adjust, Draco’s slim fingers wrapped around Harry’s cock and he began to move with slow thrusts. 

Harry found himself bucking into Draco’s fist then back towards him as the motions quickened, and Draco used his free hand to grip Harry’s hip, hard. 

“Touch yourself.” Draco’s voice had lost the cool edge and his breathing began to come ragged, as Harry groaned and replaced Draco’s hand with his own. 

The shift in position allowed Draco to grip on to both of Harry’s hips, his angle shifting until Harry cried out sharply, at which point Draco began to fuck him in earnest. Harry stroked his cock while Draco fucked him until Harry found himself spilling his completion over his hand and clenching down around Draco. 

Draco kept moving until he finished, his thrusts becoming more erratic and less controlled, and when he came – hot and damp – inside Harry, he slipped from Harry and rolled onto his back with a satisfied groan.

“Fuck me.”

“I’ll need a minute.” Harry grinned and moved onto his side, squirming at the unfamiliar sensation of having someone come inside him. “If it’s all the same to you.”

“Just a minute?” Draco looked thoroughly shagged out and he gave Harry a lazy smile, trailing his fingers along the come on Harry’s stomach and then sucking one into his mouth, licking it clean.

“Less, if you keep doing that.” Harry captured Draco’s lips in a heated kiss, tasting himself on Draco’s lips. “You’re very distracting.”

“No time for distractions, Potter. There’s work to be done.” Despite his words, Draco curled against Harry with a sigh. “In a little while.”

“No need to rush,” Harry agreed.

Harry wrapped his leg around Draco, pulling him close. With a smile, he tugged the duvets around them and pressed against Draco, allowing sleep to claim him once more.

_~Fin~_


End file.
